


i can make it better for you

by honeyfoozle



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medical, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Attempt at Humor, Bisexual Disaster Sokka (Avatar), Bisexual Sokka (Avatar), Crushes, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Flirting, Gay Zuko (Avatar), M/M, Medical Procedures, Minor Jet/Zuko (Avatar), Strangers to Lovers, Zuko is an Awkward Turtleduck, sokka is beyond whipped, zuko is a cute and awkward nurse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:07:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26380063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeyfoozle/pseuds/honeyfoozle
Summary: “I’m Zuko,” he introduces himself while taking vitals. “I’m going to be your nurse this evening.”“You’re not a doctor?” Sokka cocks his head.“Afraid not,” Zuko is on autopilot at this point; if he doesn’t hearthatat least once per shift, then it isn’t a real shift.“Oh. That was probably an annoying thing to assume. Guy nurses are cool, too.”OR: Zuko is an ER nurse and becomes increasingly concerned about the handsome guy who frequents the emergency room just a touch too often.
Relationships: Aang/Katara (Avatar), Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 271
Kudos: 1008





	1. one

Zuko sinks into his chair with a sigh. It’s just after 8pm and he finally has a chance to do some charting. There’s no one else in the small office, and he appreciates the calm before the storm while he can. He opens a bag of veggie straws and sips on some peppermint tea, mumbling to himself while he works.

“Started an IV, drew some bloodwork, administered morphine…” He enters data into the system monotonously. Thankfully, he only has two patients currently and he’s assessed and stabilized them both.

He feels a familiar presence peeking over his shoulder—so much for his alone time. Zuko sighs and closes his eyes.

“Hey, Zuko! What ended up happening to the guy who had a ring stuck on his di—”

“Discharged,” Zuko answers quickly. Aang’s morbid curiosity doesn’t surprise him. He’s an emergency room rookie, unaccustomed to the bizarre cases seen every day. “We, uh…ended up getting it off.”

“Yowch. Think it’ll ever work the same?”

“Most likely.” Zuko's eyes stay locked on his chart, more or less unphased as he recalls the painful-looking edema. He purposefully spares Aang the details; pliers and an engraving tool were required, but the poor boy’s manhood remained mostly unscathed.

“Another day saving lives, right? That’s why we’re here!”

“Saving sex lives, I guess.” Zuko shoves the last few veggie straws in his mouth. Leave it to Aang to assign greater meaning to such a vulgar, overall just disturbing case.

Aang is about to say something else but his pager goes off. He jumps, looks at it and his eyes immediately widen.

“Oh man, code blue. See you at home!” He hikes up his slightly-too-big-scrubs before running off. Zuko shakes his head as he hears his sneakers squeak down the hallway. Poor kid is a bit in over his head, that’s for sure.

Sometimes Zuko thinks Aang would be more suitable in another setting; one where he can make little kids laugh and forget about being sick. One where he can successfully make his lame ‘here comes the plane’ joke as he inserts an IV (adults experiencing acute angina aren’t exactly appreciative of that sort of thing). Aang especially doesn’t belong in a setting where severing metal rings off a flaccid penis occurs on at least a _semi-_ regular basis.

For Zuko, though, the trauma setting works just fine. It’s fast-paced, unpredictable and gives him a much-needed distraction from his personal life. Hell, three 12-hour shifts a week are hardly enough, and he finds himself picking up work whenever possible. The pay isn’t too shabby, either.

Twenty minutes later, Zuko receives a new patient. A 25-year-old man named Sokka with a hand laceration. He doesn’t need immediate care, but the triage nurse pawns him off to Zuko anyways since it’s a slow-paced evening.

He brings the man into a small room and sits him down.

“I’m Zuko,” he introduces himself while taking vitals. “I’m going to be your nurse this evening.”

“You’re not a doctor?” Sokka cocks his head.

“Afraid not,” Zuko is on autopilot at this point; if he doesn’t hear _that_ at least once per shift, then it isn’t a real shift.

“Oh. That was probably an annoying thing to assume. Guy nurses are cool, too.”

Zuko hums in consideration, wrapping a cuff around Sokka’s arm to take his blood pressure. The room is silent as he rolls his sleeve up and adjusts the tightness. Sokka wraps and rewraps the bloody towel around his hand, clearing his throat every now and then.

“So, uh…do you like being a nurse?”

Zuko assumes the inquiry is just compensation for the awkward doctor comment, but he’ll go along with it. His bedside manners need a little work, anyways.

“I like it alright,” Zuko says, squeezing the pump. “It keeps me on my toes.”

“I’ll bet. You must see some crazy shit, man.”

Zuko surprises himself when he lets out a genuine chuckle. The remark is ironic; less than three hours ago he was comforting a man who faced possible penile necrosis. 

“You could say that.”

Sokka’s vitals are fine and Zuko turns his attention to the wrapped up, bloody stump that is his hand. He removes the makeshift dressing and sizes up the cut while Sokka looks away—embarrassed or squeamish, Zuko can’t tell. The gash looks deep and will definitely need stitches, but it isn’t bleeding anymore. 

“So, Sokka,” Zuko says, pulling antiseptics, clean dressings and a bowl out of the cabinet. “How did your hand end up like this?”

There’s a long sigh, as though Zuko just asked him to write a ten-page essay. 

“You see, uh, it’s kind of a funny story.” Sokka scratches the back of his neck with his uninjured hand. His face is red. “Do you, like, have to know for your medical record thingies?”

“Context would improve my wound assessment, yes.” Zuko begins irrigating his hand in a saline solution. “Sorry if it stings.”

“It’s cool, man.” Sokka winces a bit at the sensation. “So, you see, uh, I have this friend. And she’s…blind. Totally blind. And we’re hanging out tonight, right? Anyways, she likes to cook, and usually I help her with the sharp objects, because, you know - blind. But tonight, she felt, uh, particularly independent, you could say.”

“Oh, boy.” Zuko flushes the wound and inspects for any debris. It’s a clean cut, and not deep enough to injure nerves or tendons.

“That’s what I’m saying!” Sokka throws his free hand in the air, waving it around as though he’s gone through this point hundreds of times. “Anyways, to make a long story short, she mistook my hand for a lump of meat. At least, that’s her bullshit story right now. And who can argue with the blind girl?”

Zuko has to choke back his laughter. Respect the patient: it’s a pillar of nursing, for crying out loud. But Sokka has an easy attitude about his misfortune, as though this sort of strife isn’t too uncommon. 

“So, you were cut with a kitchen knife?” Zuko scribbles down a few pertinent details in his notes.

“Yeah. Like, I was resting my hand on the table and she just—” Sokka makes a seething noise through his teeth, surely recalling the sensation— “Let me tell you, it hurt like a bitch. Maybe it was my fault for being right next to a hunk of raw meat, right?”

“Totally your fault,” Zuko says with a smirk.

Sokka smiles at that, eyes lingering on Zuko as he finishes drying his hand.

The cut looks just about as pristine as any gaping wound can; one long gash running through the pad of muscles beneath Sokka’s thumb. It doesn’t look infected but would certainly become so if not closed up. Zuko leaves to consult a doctor, create a chart for Sokka and devise the treatment plan: stitches, topical antibiotics and a swift discharge.

As he rounds the corner to Sokka’s room, suture material in hand, Zuko hears him on the phone.

“—no! Oh my gosh, that would be so lame.” A long sigh. “No, Toph, I am _not_ about to thank you for sending me to the emergency room—”

Zuko enters then, an awkward smile on his face.

“Gotta go, Toph.” Sokka hangs up before looking at Zuko sheepishly. “Sorry.”

The curious side of Zuko has a few questions, but the larger part of his brain is in work mode. He pulls up a stool and settles himself between Sokka’s leg, pushing some hair behind his ear and ready to get stitching.

“Damn, at least take me to dinner first.” Sokka laughs and gives him a nudge. “Kidding! I’m kidding.”

“Give me your hand, please,” Zuko says, voice a little strained. He feels his cheeks heat up—patients flirt with him often enough, but something about Sokka’s words are hard to shrug off. He hopes Sokka doesn’t notice the slight tremble in his hands as he takes out a small syringe.

When Sokka lays eyes on the tool, though, he goes from flirtatious to pale.

“This is just to numb the area, so the stitches don’t hurt,” Zuko assures.

Sokka nods and makes a point to look away as Zuko starts the micro injections, flinching a bit at each pinch. By the time Zuko threads the suture string through an eyeless needle, Sokka’s shoulders are practically touching his ears. His jaw is clenched, mouth a tight line and Zuko is 99% sure he isn’t breathing.

He pauses his ministrations to look up at Sokka. “Not a fan of needles?”

“What? Me? No, I’m fine!” Sokka croaks. His forehead glistens with a thin sheen of sweat. “I…I love sharp, pointy things.” 

Zuko frowns. He stands up, marches to the other side of the room and fills a small dixie cup with water.

“Sip this and just focus on your breathing,” he says, pressing the cup into Sokka’s palm. “It’ll only be a few small pinches. I’m good at suturing.” He hopes his grin doesn’t come across as creepy—it’s not often a patient draws a smile out of him, and it’s even less often he feel such a strong obligation to comfort one.

Sokka seems to appreciate it, though, gifting Zuko a thankful smile of his own.

Zuko makes quick work of the sutures—he wasn’t lying when he said he was good at it—and before long he finishes, leaving Sokka to relax and admire his handiwork.

“I didn’t know nurses could stitch,” he says absentmindedly—almost dreamily. Zuko raises a brow and it snaps him back to reality. “I mean, uh, my sister is a RN, and she doesn’t do this.”

“Yeah, I’m actually a CNS. A clinical nurse specialist.”

Sokka looks enchanted. “What’s that?” He leans towards Zuko, legs swinging off the examination table.

“Um—I basically just did some extra schooling…” Zuko coughs and scratches his neck. Sokka’s eyes are _really_ nice, and _really_ blue. But Zuko’s social anxiety is _really_ bad. “Anyways, let’s get you discharged, how does that sound?”

Sokka is compliant as they go through the necessary paperwork and insurance procedures. Zuko educates him on wound precautions and instructs him to get his sutures removed in two weeks.

“Are you going to remove them?” Sokka asks with a hopeful smile.

“We don’t typically do that here; you can just go to urgent care and they’ll make sure it’s nice and healed before taking them out.”

“Aw, man.” Sokka looks disappointed. “The chances of getting another cute nurse are slim. Oh well. Thanks for fixing me up, Zuko.”

Zuko feels himself blush and looks down. He wishes Sokka the best with his injury and points him down the hallway to the exit.

\---

A month later, Zuko clocks into work at 6:30am. He wasn’t supposed to work today, but his dad is in town and wants to see him. What better way to get out of it than pick up his fourth twelve-hour shift of the week?

When he strolls into the office, he sees Aang hunched over a jug of lemon water, charting after working the night shift. One of his eyes is twitching.

“Morning, buddy.” Zuko frowns when Aang doesn’t acknowledge his greeting, instead tightening his fists in an uncharacteristically stressed gesture.

“Zuko, I can’t do this anymore. Do you even know what I had to do last night?”

Zuko sits next to him, lending a listening ear. The hollow look in Aang’s eyes is off-putting, but it also suggests that this is a story worth listening to.

“What happened?”

“A woman comes in complaining of leg pain. Okay, let me take a look, right? She has a cast on. I ask her what happened to it. Says she broke her leg a _year_ ago.”

“There it is.”

“Yeah. We cut the cast off.” Aang turns towards Zuko with a scrunched face. “Maggots, Zuko. There were flesh-eating _maggots_ on her leg.”

“That would definitely cause leg pain.”

“You would think!” Aang buries his head under his arms, pressing his forehead into the table. “Please tell me you left the apartment unlocked, by the way. I left my keys in my room.”

“Take mine,” Zuko says. “I’ll be here until tonight. Just don’t go anywhere until I’m back.”

Aang mumbles a thank you, then something about needing to find a new job, then a curse about leaving his pager in the elevator. Once again, Zuko is alone in the small office.

His shift goes by quickly—Monday’s are always the busiest day of the week. By the time five o’clock rolls around, things slow down. Zuko only has one patient with abdominal pain, and he has nothing to do besides wait for their CT scan results and update his charts.

He’s assigned a new patient at 5:30. A 25-year-old man with severe shoulder pain and—Zuko double-takes when he reads the name. 

_Sokka?!_ Zuko’s heart starts to race, and he feels a strange sense of giddiness as he walks to the waiting room. The giddiness is quickly replaced by concern, however, because this is an emergency room, after all. And at this point, Sokka is showing signs of 'walking disaster' syndrome. What happened this time, anyways?

All the while, the tiniest, most insecure part of Zuko can’t help but wonder: will Sokka even remember him? This fear doesn’t last too long, though, because Sokka audibly gasps when Zuko calls his name.

“No way.” Sokka stands, clutching his right arm to his chest. His face is scrunched in pain, but he looks undeniably happy to see the familiar face. “Zuko! Long time no see.”

 _‘Not that long considering this is your second trip to the ER this month,’_ Zuko wants to say. But Sokka has that carefree way about him that make correcting him feel entirely unnecessary.

“How’s the hand?” he asks instead, leading Sokka down the hallway.

“Oh, it’s totally fine. I barely even have a scar! I think it has something to do with the cute nurse who’s wicked good at stitches.”

Zuko ignores the blush on his face and gets to work taking Sokka’s vitals, which all come out fine.

“So, you’re here today because of your shoulder.”

“I think I dislocated it,” Sokka says. “Actually, I pretty much _know_ I dislocated it.”

Zuko hums. “Alright. Well, I’ll have to take a look at it before we come to any conclusions.”

Sokka can’t lift his arm to take his shirt off, so Zuko takes some bandage scissors and cuts through his cotton long sleeve.

“Sorry,” he says, throwing it in the trash. “We’ll get you another shirt.”

Zuko can’t ignore the elephant in the room. Sokka shirtless is…a blessed sight. His torso is lean but toned, with smooth mocha skin, a patch of coarse black hair on his chest, and—Zuko’s eyes widen—are those nipple piercings? ‘ _Holy shit. Keep it professional, Zuko.’_

“It’s no problem, man,” Sokka says, oblivious to his utter sexiness and clearly in pain. Oh, right. This is the emergency room, not fucking Love Island. _‘Pull yourself together, Zuko.’_

Overall, Sokka’s arm looks out of place. Zuko palpates his shoulder, taking note of the obvious bruising and swelling. Couple that with general immobility, pain and tenderness—it’s a textbook dislocation.

“What were you doing when this happened?” Zuko asks, taking his gloves off and squirting some antiseptic on his hands. He picks up his clipboard and scribbles a few notes down.

“Ugh, it’s really embarrassing.” Sokka hangs his head. “Like, I don’t even wanna say it.”

“Can’t be worse than your friend mistaking your hand for steak, right?”

“You remember that dumb story? Wow, I love that.” Sokka laughs, looking up at Zuko fondly. “I was, uh…well, I was actually playing beach volleyball.”

“Beach volleyball,” Zuko repeats. _That’s_ a mental image he never knew he needed.

“Yeah. Some random people asked me to play and I was getting really into it. Eventually the jerk on the other team spiked it, and I dived to save it, and the impact fucked my shoulder up _real_ nice.”

Zuko nods, unable to shake the image of Sokka in swim trunks, sauntering around on the beach, glistening with sweat, slathering on sunscreen—wait, what?

He orders some radiographs to provide context about the injury, namely the direction of the dislocation and if there are any associated fractures. Sokka’s explanation of how he injured himself gives him strong suspicions of each factor, but he still needs to be sure.

Twenty minutes later, he’s looking over the results with his team while Sokka sits patiently in the treatment room. It’s an anterior dislocation if Zuko’s ever seen one. There are no associated fractures in the humerus or collar bone and no tears of the rotator cuff—great. They devise a treatment plan and Zuko returns to Sokka’s room ten minutes later.

“I’ll perform a closed reduction and you’ll be out of here in no time,” he says, after providing Sokka the details of his diagnosis.

“A closed reduction?”

“I’ll reset your shoulder manually.”

Sokka gulps. “You—you’re gonna, uh—will it hurt?”

“For a second,” Zuko says, feeling guilty about the utter fear in his blue eyes. “I’ll put you in a sling afterwards and you’ll be good as new.”

Sokka stays attentive as Zuko goes over his rehearsed script of risks—informed consent and all. Sokka won’t be sedated since the dislocation is recent, so there are no specific agent risks. Reduction maneuvers carry the rare incidence of fracture to the humerus, glenoid or coracoid process. Axillary artery or nerve injuries are also rare but possible complications.

“Wow, I don’t understand a word you just said,” Sokka says, leaning forward. “But I trust you, Nurse Zuko.” To prove his point, he holds up his previously stitched up hand and smiles.

“It’s a very safe procedure. Don’t worry.” Zuko can’t help the grin that tugs at his lips. Sokka might be a dumbass, but damn if he isn’t charming.

Zuko instructs Sokka to lie down on his back and he complies, though not without quipping that this is the most action he’s seen in months. Zuko rolls his eyes and vaguely recalls how long it’s been since _he’s_ last gotten laid (hint: it’s been longer than a few months). Taking Sokka’s arm, he positions it palm-up and away from his torso.

“Take a deep breath.”

Before Sokka can fully suck in, Zuko pulls his arm even further up until it’s next to his ear. His other hand simultaneously pushes down on the dislocated humeral head and a resounding _pop_ fills the room as the joint shifts back in place.

 _“Oh!”_ Sokka yelps. His body spasms, jaw goes slack and eyes screw shut. _“You bastard.”_

“That’s called the Milch technique.” Zuko says. He grins when Sokka slowly opens his eyes—the acute pain has subsided—and gives his shoulders an experimental shrug. His eyes light up when he realizes his arm is now in-tact.

“I could kiss you right now.” Sokka looks just a little too serious, and Zuko feels his heart skip a beat.

“Your co-pay will be plenty, don’t worry.” The words are out before Zuko can stop himself, and he immediately goes red.

But Sokka throws his head back and laughs; big guffaws that crinkle his eyes and bend him over. “Oh my _gosh._ Wait, you’re hilarious!”

“I’m sorry, that was unprofessional of me—”

“HAHA no, no, Zuko. Oh my gosh. You’re so serious, which made that even funnier. For real.”

Zuko blushes impossibly darker, turning to jot down a few useless notes—anything so Sokka doesn’t see his tomato face. 

Ten minutes later, Zuko gives him a new shirt, fixes him up with a sling—Sokka isn’t too happy about wearing it for the next three weeks _and_ requiring physical therapy—and recommends some OTC pain relivers. They go through the discharge routine and soon enough Zuko is wishing him well on the rest of his recovery.

“Thanks, Zuko,” Sokka says, smiling. “And, hey—thanks for popping this bad boy into place.”

“You’re very welcome,” Zuko says, resisting the urge to say ‘any time’.

“And who knows, maybe you’ll see my shining face around here again someday.”

“For your sake, I hope not.”

“Damn, cute _and_ funny. Leave some for the rest of us, will you?” Sokka says, walking backwards down the hall with a grin. “Take care, Zuko.”

Zuko lifts his hand in a half-wave. He ignores the sinking feeling in his stomach as he turns over Sokka’s room for the next patient.

\---

Two months later, Zuko has a day off. He wakes up around noon and rubs the sleep from his eyes. When he pads to the kitchen, he notices Aang isn’t home; his bedroom door is left wide open and it’s an empty, disastrous mess in there.

A sticky note on the counter reads: ‘picked up Tammy’s afternoon shift!’ complete with smiley faces and flower doodles. Why Aang is still forcing himself to enjoy his job, Zuko doesn’t understand. It’s not like he’s stretched for cash. However, as much as Zuko hates being alone with his thoughts, he’s not entirely opposed to a day by himself.

He opens the fridge, sighing when he takes in its utter desolation. He pulls together a pathetic breakfast of Eggo waffles with peanut butter before jumping in the shower, pulling himself together and heading to the grocery store.

He’s eyeing cuts of chicken when a familiar voice rings out.

“You’re kidding—Nurse Zuko!”

Zuko’s head snaps up and he’s met with Sokka’s piercing blue eyes, bounding up to him with a familiarity one might reserve for an old friend. From any other quasi-stranger, it would be off-putting. From Sokka, though—Zuko’s heart swells in excitement at the sight.

“Oh, hey, Sokka.”

Zuko wants to ask about his shoulder, but, well—HIPAA. Plus, Sokka is in a sleeveless tank and athletic shorts. His hair is pulled back in a bun and there’s a sweatband around his head; he clearly just came from the gym, and his shoulder must work swimmingly. _‘Very swimmingly,’_ Zuko’s subconscious adds, eyes skimming over Sokka’s deltoids.

But then Zuko feels embarrassed, because he hasn’t worked out in, like, months. And here he stands, having rolled out of bed not even an hour ago, in sweatpants and an old white t-shirt. Eyeing the ingredients to make tempura chicken with rice. With plans to hit the ice cream aisle next.

“Not going to lie—a couple weeks ago I thought we were going to meet again.” Sokka’s eyes shift around and he leans in humorously. “I had a _pretty_ bad stomach bug. Dehydrated as all hell.”

“O-oh, uh. I’m glad you’re feeling better, now.”

“I was tempted to go in anyways and request you, you know. Like, it kinda feels like you’re my personal nurse at this point.” Sokka isn’t fazed by Zuko’s awkwardness, giving him a pat on the shoulder. “So, how are you, man?”

“I’m…doing well, thanks. I have today off, so I’m just running a few errands.”

They fall into some casual small talk. Sokka explains that he’s in between engineering jobs and using the time to move into a new apartment by himself. He informs Zuko, unprompted, that his physical therapist was a ‘wrinkly old bitch’ but she got the job done and it’s as though he never dislocated his shoulder in the first place.

Zuko listens intently, savoring each tidbit he learns about the handsome stranger. Unfortunately, Sokka has a considerable amount of human decency, which means he eventually asks Zuko about—ugh— ‘hobbies’ and ‘things he does for fun’. Zuko rattles off a half-assed comment about work taking over his life and how he has ‘hardly any free time’.

It’s not a _complete_ lie; he’s just leaving out the part where he has no friends besides Aang, a shitshow of a family and the personality of a stethoscope. If Sokka suspects any bluffing, he doesn’t comment on it. He’s relaxed and charming as ever—just the right mixture of friendly, engaged and polite.

Eventually, though, the conversation derails and Sokka looks at Zuko with a strange combination of insecurity and intrigue.

“Hey, uh, this is weird, but I actually have a personal question.”

“Yeah?” Zuko’s heart begins to race at the implication of his expression, his tone, his body language—

“So, uh, I have a…ittle-lay oblem-pray.” Sokka leans in closer, talking between his teeth.

Oh. Zuko understands immediately and resists the urge to frown. “No matter what you say, I’m going to tell you to get it officially checked by a doctor.”

“No, I know, I know, I wasn’t even gonna say anything,” Sokka backtracks. “I just—I thought maybe you’d have an off-the-record comment. As a friend?” He waggles his eyebrows a bit, working his charm to the max. Unfortunately, Zuko is a sucker for it.

“Fine.”

“Yay!” Sokka looks elated, but his expression quickly changes to grim. “So, like, when should I become…concerned…about poison ivy?”

“What do you mean?”

Sokka sighs. Zuko sure is getting used to _that_ reaction.

“Let’s just say I was…rolling around in some leaves the other weekend…not fully dressed. For reasons. And I didn’t realize they were poison ivy leaves, and now it’s spreading _everywhere.”_

“Oh, God.”

“When should I be concerned?”

“You need to make sure it isn’t infected, which can happen if you itch too much,” Zuko says. His brow is raised, but he isn’t fazed by what Sokka’s saying. Not on a medical basis, at least—nothing could possibly faze him in that realm. 

Instead, he feels an immense sense of jealousy and disappointment that Sokka just strongly hinted at hooking up with someone in the woods.

“Well, I have calamine lotion and all that. I slather it _everywhere.”_ Sokka’s eyes bulge out for emphasis, and Zuko ponders if this man has any shame. “But it’s still pretty impossible not to itch.”

“Right,” Zuko sighs, more flustered than he would care to admit. “Off the record—just do your best to keep your hands off and it will be alright.”

Sokka still looks pained. “Okay, yeah, but what I’m really trying to say, is will this ruin how my dick—”

“No. No, it will not.” The mental images Zuko conjures up are…medically pornographic. Here he is, imagining himself tend to Sokka’s rash-afflicted dick in the middle of the poultry aisle. Picturing just how far they could get with a tub of calamine lotion, and—what the hell? He _really_ needs to get laid.

Perturbed with his own mind, Zuko quickly covers his tracks with a bit of actual advice.

“Sokka, you have to see a doctor if it’s that bad in your groin.”

“Ugh, no, I know. You’re right. Boy am I glad to have good health insurance.”

Zuko hums. For all he just disclosed, Sokka doesn’t appear embarrassed. He seems relieved to have gotten some advice, not even second guessing how much he just overshared for all to hear. If he wasn't so charming, Zuko would be horrified. But here he is, utterly captivated by this walking liability with stunning blue eyes.

“Thanks again, Zuko,” Sokka says, scratching the back of his neck.

“No problem.”

There’s an awkward silence as Zuko puts off the inevitable, vague ‘see ya around’-type of goodbye this situation calls for. How else does one part ways with a man who just spelled out the details of his crotch poison ivy? But Sokka further proves his shamelessness by taking a bashful step closer, hands stuffed in his pockets.

“Hey, listen, um, can I—” he’s cut off by his phone ringing. Sokka frowns, checks it, and his brows furrow together in disgust. It’s the only time Zuko’s seen him remotely displeased. “Shit, never mind. I have to go. See you around, Zuko.”

Zuko is left alone with raw chicken, a thumping heart and extreme confusion.

A few hours later, he’s sprawled on the couch watching TV. A plate of what used to be tempura chicken sits on the coffee table, next to his feet. He doesn’t budge as the apartment door creaks open, signaling that Aang is home.

If his girlfriend Katara wasn’t with him, Zuko would be happy to continue his slobbery for Aang alone to see. But her company makes him feel oddly embarrassed and he straightens, picking up his plate and padding to the kitchen sink. Aang assesses the apartment and smirks at him, not about to let the act slide.

“You made a pound of rice and you’re watching _Project Runway._ Everything okay?”

“What? Yeah.” Zuko tries _so very hard_ to play it cool. He scours his plate with a sponge, social anxiety in full force. “Just had a day off for once.”

“Uh-huh.”

“How was your shift?” Zuko asks, changing the topic. 

“It was…” Aang huffs, untucking his scrubs and tossing his shoes by the door. “A shift.”

“I keep telling him he needs to find a new job,” Katara says. “Like, I love my job at the nursing home.”

“Yeah, no thanks.” Aang says. “I can’t do 99% productivity.”

“See, I think you’d be great with kids,” Zuko adds, surprising himself with the genuine input. He’s not lying, but he mostly wants to solidify a different topic before Aang can point out the tempura batter stains on his shirt.

As planned, they fall into work-related conversations as Aang cooks himself and Katara dinner; a very healthy-looking salad topped with seasoned tofu, Zuko notes with shame. When he’s had enough of the third-wheeling _(‘together for three years and still in the honeymoon phase—we get it, you’re in love’_ he thinks), he slips back into the living room to un-pause his show and rot the evening away.

His mind wanders to the rocky road ice cream he bought earlier, but then he hears Katara mention how perfectly Aang chopped up the bell peppers and can’t bring himself to go retrieve it.

An hour later, he’s half asleep. He vaguely hears Katara sigh in the other room.

“I have to go, sweetie. Promised my brother I’d help him unpack a few things.”

By the time she squints at her phone and adds “wait, why does he want me to bring over calamine lotion?” Zuko is fast asleep, none the wiser. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi all! this fic title is based on [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WYvji5AXOfk&list=RDWYvji5AXOfk&start_radio=1) song :)
> 
> how do we feel about this AU??? love it? hate it? talk to me!
> 
> NOTE: while I am a medical professional, I am not a nurse, a CNS, NP, CNA or belong to any branch of nursing. I understand that some parts aren't perfectly accurate (zuko would have had help with the shoulder reduction maneuver) but PLEASE don't hesitate to tell me if anything about this is so wildly inaccurate that it breaks your immersion. I did my research for things I wasn't sure about but am very open to tweaking certain things :)


	2. two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to say: thank you all so much for such an amazing response to the first chapter! I seriously wasn't expecting it! your comments and kudos mean the absolute world and I love interacting with you all. I hope you enjoy chapter two! :)
> 
> warning! I have changed the rating of this fic to explicit. there is a reason for that, beginning in this chapter. 
> 
> going forward, I don't plan on super frequent and explicit smut, but there is a short/rough sex scene at the end of this chapter. you have been warned!

Too many pictures with fish. _Swipe._

More pictures of cars than his face. _Swipe._

A selfie with a deer he shot down for game. _Swipe._

Zuko sighs, wondering why he decided to download Tinder in the first place. _‘Oh, right, I need to get laid, like, stupid badly,’_ he reminds himself. Upon peering over his shoulder—Aang really has a bad habit of doing that—his friend sighs, ruffles his hair and wishes him a pitiful good luck. Katara is markedly less positive; the look she gives Zuko is comparable to a mother finding her son’s secret stash of weed.

“You realize Tinder is full of creeps and fuckboys, right?”

“It’s not like I’m trying to get married,” Zuko mumbles, tightening the drawstrings on his hoodie. If he obscures his vision just enough, maybe one of these profiles will look attractive.

Katara is right, though. And his impressive sum of zero matches isn’t helped by the fact that he swipes left on 99% of profiles. Zuko can’t help it—he’s picky. Really picky, especially considering his own profile is nothing to gawk at. He has a picture with Aang from when they travelled to California, him in nursing school with a simulator mannequin, and finally him in front of the hospital he works at. (Aang had insisted they have a photoshoot before their first day, scrubs and all. It’s probably the only picture within the last five years where Zuko is smiling with his teeth.)

His bio is even worse—"25 y/o trauma nurse.” _‘Jeez, get another personality, Zuko. Or, like, a hobby. Damn.’_

“You know what, this actually might be good for you, Zuko,” Aang chirps, pouring an obscene amount of sunflower seeds into his cupped hand before bottoms-upping it. “Putting yourself out there and all.”

He’s as genuine and hopeful as ever, no surprise there. Zuko can just see the visions Aang is having: Zuko and a handsome stranger going on a simple coffee date, having a romantic stroll through the park, wining and dining in a fancy restaurant. He could snort. _‘If putting myself out there means getting fucked until I can’t walk, then yes, this will be good for me,’_ he thinks.

“Thanks, buddy,” he says instead, because Aang’s childlike optimism is truly something to cherish.

Katara is in the middle of telling him to ‘just be careful’ when Zuko almost drops his phone. He perks up on the couch, pushes his hood off and clears his throat. Jaw on the floor, he ignores the stupefied looks from his friends as he gapes at the profile he stumbled across.

The mocha skin, the bright blue eyes, the charming grin.

“What, did you match with someone?” Aang asks from the other couch.

“Uh…no. It’s nothing.”

Thankfully, Aang just shrugs and turns to Katara. He makes a comment about whatever news is being reported on TV and remains blissfully unaware of the spiral Zuko has entered.

He reads the name once, twice, three times to solidify that, yes, Sokka is on Tinder and, yes, Sokka is on Tinder looking to talk to _men._ His heart races as he scrolls through the profile, phone inches from his face.

Sokka’s pictures are much better than Zuko’s, no surprise there. There’s one of him sandwiched between two girls at a music festival, one of him running through a marathon finish line, throwing a peace sign up to the camera, a beautiful picture with a taller, similar-looking man under the northern lights in Iceland…

Zuko feels a knot form in his stomach. If he ever had a vague, passing thought Sokka was out of his league before, this solidifies it tenfold. It’s a profile anyone with a brain would swipe right on; Sokka probably has more matches than he can keep track of.

His thumb hovers over an adorable selfie with who looks to be Sokka’s grandmother. She has an astounded, humored look on her face, clearly caught off guard by the camera. Sokka is in the middle of cracking up, his smile stretching wide across his face and eyes squinted shut. He’s _so cute ohmygod._

But then…Zuko swipes left. He’s too realistic for his own good and knows one thing for certain: himself and Sokka is never going to happen. He doesn’t even want to embarrass himself trying.

The next profile is far more approachable; a rugged looking country boy with just enough pictures of his face for Zuko size him up. His name is Jet, and his bio reads that he’s an agricultural sales representative. It also says, unapologetically, that he’s ‘not looking for anything serious.’

Zuko scans over an image of him leaning against stacked bales of hay, a piece of straw hanging from his mouth. He’s cute, and not as intimidatingly handsome as Sokka. Zuko swipes right with a shrug. 

_It’s a match! You and Jet have liked each other._

Zuko watches an animation of their profile pictures coming together and confetti raining down. He has the option to send a message or keep swiping. Hmm, put himself out there for once or continue to mindlessly scroll? It’s a no brainer.

He’s ten left-swipes deep when Jet messages him first.

 **_Jet:_ ** _You remind me of the Phantom of the Opera…but like in a sexy way ;)_

Oh, nice. Right out the gate and he’s pointing out Zuko’s biggest insecurity. Like, really? He’s gotten used to the enormous scar from years of scrutinizing his reflection, but still. The reminder that it’s the first thing anyone will ever notice about him isn’t really a day-brightener. Vaguely offended, he sends the first thing that comes to mind. 

**_Zuko:_** _You remind me of Farmer Brown, but in a bad way._

**_Jet:_ ** _Touché._

 **_Jet:_ ** _Just to be clear, though, I think you’re insanely hot._

Zuko sighs. He’s had his account for two days and Jet is his first match. If he doesn’t at least _try_ his hand at casual flings, he’s asking for a remaining lifetime of no action. And, sure, maybe he has attended a few Halloween parties dressed as the Phantom of the Opera. _Definitely_ not because of his scar, though.

He types out a message that he hopes sounds casual, collected and tastefully flirtatious; everything he isn’t.

 **_Zuko:_ ** _Thanks. And you are, too. I was kidding about the Farmer Brown thing._

Even as he sends it, some about the exchange makes Zuko feel…dirty. Unfamiliar. He doesn’t flirt, doesn’t get into the ‘talking stage’ with people, and he definitely doesn’t call people insanely hot without so much as a proper introduction. 

The realistic part of his brain tells him there’s nothing wrong with a casual conversation on Tinder. The dreamy part of his brain chastises him for not swiping right on Sokka. The horny part of his brain reminds him Jet is probably the best he can do anyways.

 **_Jet:_ ** _Haha! No worries._

 **_Jet:_ ** _So, is our obvious attraction to each other going to be limited to Tinder, or will we get to experience it in person?_

Zuko worries his bottom lip. The message hardly conceals Jet’s intentions, which he appreciates—but now that the offer had been made, Zuko doesn’t know how to feel about it. On one hand, he wants to get laid. On the other hand…social anxiety.

His train of thought is interrupted by Aang and Katara’s poorly stifled giggles. Zuko looks up to see them huddled over Aang’s phone, watching some dumb vine compilation on YouTube. Katara is curled into his side, resting her head on his shoulder. Aang has a long arm looped around her waist. When she laughs particularly hard at a clip, he looks at her with bursting fondness and presses a chaste kiss to her temple. 

Zuko rolls his eyes. Fuck it.

 **_Zuko:_ ** _I’m down to meet in person. What do you have in mind?_

Once the message is sent, Zuko exits the app. He stands up and pads to his room to get ready for work, unacknowledged by the happy couple on the couch across from him. Pulling on a gray long sleeve and some maroon scrubs, Zuko is more than ready to clock in and get his mind off Jet, and Tinder, and especially Sokka. 

A few hours later, it’s 3pm, and Zuko is considering a lumbar puncture in order to rule out meningitis in a headache patient. He does his best to provide thorough education about the procedure; she’s nervous, and rightly so, but his bedside manners have always been a little awkward.

Once that’s done, he bounds to his second priority room to assess an elderly patient admitted for weakness and hypotension. She’s not dehydrated but there’s a possible urine infection: great. One step closer to some concrete answers, at least.

Twenty minutes later, he’s applying complex dressing to a laceration patient before assisting a CHF patient to the bathroom and rechecking their vitals. All the while, he responds to two code blues and helps revive an acute angina patient who entered cardiac arrest.

The longer Zuko spends on his feet, the more focused he feels. Things are _busy_ tonight, so busy that he hasn’t eaten in the past four hours. It’s pure chaos. Each time he discharges or admits a patient, he’s assigned two more. And the relentless pace, once established, shows no signs of letting up.

Chomping the last bite of a granola bar, Zuko jogs to the waiting room to retrieve his next patient: a man with severe stomach cramps and a history of chronic constipation. _‘Palpate the lower right abdomen—could be acute appendicitis. Run a blood count if infection is suspected. A urine sample could diagnose kidney stones’—_ Zuko’s brain rattles off at a mile a minute. There isn’t anything that could bring him out of clinical mode right now.

Well, anything except the striking blue eyes he locks gazes with from across the room. Yeah, that will do it.

Zuko feels himself mouth _‘Sokka?’_ and for a long ten seconds he stares like an idiot. His legs refuse to work and his mind goes blank; hell, the hospital could be on fire and he wouldn’t know. All he sees is Sokka, who looks more like a lost puppy than the charming, confident man he’s treated before. His blue eyes are aghast, his face pallid. Whatever Sokka’s here for, it’s not nearly as amusing as his more recent health escapades.

Sokka looks at him longingly, as though Zuko has a personal stake in this situation he knows nothing about. And Zuko—abdomen patient be damned—Zuko is really about to walk up to Sokka and ask how he can help. Just like those damn blue eyes are pleading him to do.

Just as he takes the first step, though, his coworkers rush by him with a stretcher and he’s forced to dodge out of the way. It’s a harsh reminder that he’s here, in the emergency room, on the clock, and oh—his patients kind-of-sort-of _desperately_ need him. Sokka isn’t his patient. Sokka will have to wait. 

_‘What are you doing? Pull yourself together, Zuko,’_ he thinks, ripping his gaze away and rounding up the patient he came to retrieve. Clinical mode re-activated.

He goes through the motions to the best of his ability; it seems to be a textbook case of appendicitis. The man curses at Zuko when he palpates his stomach, begging for morphine. It came on suddenly, and the pain escalated quickly. An ultrasound comes back and confirms that his appendix is right on the cusp of bursting, so he’s prepped for surgery immediately.

At that point, treatment is officially out of Zuko’s realm of expertise, so he’s taken off the case. He drags his feet back to the office, more than ready for a 15-minute break. After flagging down two relief nurses to cover for him, he grabs a clementine from his bag and starts down the hallway.

He’d be lying if he said he didn’t have specific intentions. Usually, Zuko stays in the office during breaks, sprawled out on the small couch and screwing around on his phone until it’s time to get back to work. But tonight, he strolls outside. Walking through the waiting room, he works on peeling his fruit and hopes to catch the attention of a certain blue-eyed man he saw earlier. He’s disappointed when Sokka is nowhere to be seen, but steps outside anyways.

Oh, well. Hopefully that means everything is okay with him.

It’s a chilly, clear night. The first weekend of September signals the end of summer, and Zuko takes a deep breath through his nose. He plops down on a sidewalk bench, staring up at the stars as he pushes a clementine wedge into his mouth. He feels relaxed; little bit of peace and quiet is just what he needs right now.

From the ground next to him, someone sighs. “It’s my Gran Gran. She fell and hit her head.”

Zuko jolts, inhaling sharply at the sudden voice. The fruit catapults to the back of his throat and secures itself there, lurching him forward into a violent coughing fit.

“Sorry. Sorry! Oh my gosh, I’m an idiot, I thought you saw me.”

Zuko keels over, pounding at his chest as he works the food down the right pipe.

“I—” He wheezes. “I thought—” Another coughing fit possesses him. “I thought I was— _ahem—_ alo- _oh_ -ne.”

“Shit, oh my gosh, Zuko, are you gonna be okay?”

Through his body’s violent rejection of the clementine, Zuko is able to make out a concerned pair of blue eyes and two handsome brows knit together. So that’s where he went. Well, Zuko _was_ hoping he’d run into Sokka again at some point. Just—ugh—not like this.

Zuko continues to hack away until his eyes water. Sokka takes a hesitant step forward, both arms stretched out as he contemplates giving Zuko the Heimlich. Judging by his dumbstruck expression, though, he’s not certified for the maneuver whatsoever.

“No, I’m—” Another whooping cough. “I’m fine, just give me— _hah—_ a second.” Zuko doesn’t have the breath support to explain that someone who actually needs the Heimlich wouldn’t be breathing, let alone coughing up a lung like a man possessed.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. Just let it out, man. I’m _so_ sorry.”

Desperate to be of use somehow, Sokka hands Zuko his bottled water, which he graciously accepts and uses to soothe his windpipe. Sokka pats him on the back as he comes down from another fit, finally achieving relief. When he’s composed enough, Zuko stands up straight and shoves his hands into his pocket. He’s too mortified to look anywhere but the ground.

Sokka is the first to speak, wide-eyed and repentant.

“I’m so fucking sorry, man, oh my God.”

“No, no, don’t apologize.” Zuko’s voice is gruff with embarrassment. “You just, uh, took me by surprise.”

“No, I seriously feel like an asshole.”

Zuko shakes his head. How is Sokka supposed to know he’s partially blind in his left eye? Had he been sitting to Zuko’s right, things would not have derailed so magnificently.

“Seriously, it’s fine,” Zuko says. To really drive the point home, he tries his hand at a casual, friendly grin. It feels unnatural and forced, though, and he immediately regrets attempting it.

“If you say so.” Sokka returns the grin; it blooms across his face far more organically than Zuko’s pathetic attempt. His heart flutters at the sight of it.

They stand in silence for a few moments, then. Zuko fidgets with the remainder of his clementine and Sokka stares intently at his sneakers, the grin never fully leaving his face. _‘Say something, dumbass. Say something!’_ Zuko recalls what Sokka had said earlier, before he almost died at a hands of a fucking cutie clementine.

“So, is your grandma alright?”

At that, a wall seems to crumble around Sokka. He lets his shoulders sag, face reverting to the scared, lost expression he wore in the waiting room.

“I don’t know.” His voice threatens to crack. “She fell on her head. They’re—” he takes a deep, shaky breath. “They’re scanning to see if she has a brain bleed.”

Zuko thinks. What should he say? He doesn’t know the medical details and didn’t perform an exam to see the superficial skull damage. Plus, no conclusions can even be made before MRI results come back. And as badly as he wants to help, telling Sokka his grandma will be totally fine would be unethical. Sokka looks frantic, though, and he knows he needs to _try_ and help. 

Biting his lip, Zuko takes the only route that comes naturally to him. “How did she fall?”

“I don’t know for sure. I…had to find her in her bedroom.” Sokka hugs himself a bit, frowning. “She just looks so awful. Her entire face is bruised and swollen like crazy.”

“Well, um.” Zuko searches for the right balance of comfort and realism. “So, the older you are, the thinner your skin is. You bruise easier.” He licks his lips. “So, even though your grandma might look awful…well, uh, she might look worse than she actually is, basically.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. In my experience, a patient’s scan can say a lot more about their health than their appearance does. So…just try to hold tight until you get those back.”

“Okay. Thanks, Zuko.” Sokka says. He sounds genuine—he always does—but looks only marginally comforted.

Zuko contemplates choking himself on another clementine wedge. He shrugs, wordlessly conveying self-awareness: he’s shit at comforting people, and he knows it. 

“No, I mean it,” Sokka says without missing a beat. “Like, I really mean it. You’re on your fucking break and you’ve given me more clarity than the doctor actually treating my Gran Gran. Like, you actually _give a shit,_ you know?”

Zuko is about to respond, but it’s like a dam has been broken in Sokka. He takes a step forward, directing his words up into the starry night sky. 

“No one is telling me anything. They’re using all these fancy words and moving too fast for me to keep up. I get it—it’s urgent. I _get_ that. But I have no clue what’s going on, and no one caring enough to tell me anything is fucking terrifying. It’s terrifying!”

He turns back to Zuko.

“But you—you give a shit. You care that I’m nervous. You always have, even when I wimped out over getting pricked with a needle.” Sokka locks eyes with him. “You can’t snap your fingers and fix everything; I know that. But you have no idea how far it goes for a patient when someone just… _cares.”_

Damn. Zuko can’t recall a time where any patient referred to him as caring. He’s knowledgeable but awkward, kind but impersonal, efficient but a little jaded. Any effort he makes to provide empathy surely comes across as stiff and bumbling. But Sokka—staring at him with big eyes and an open, gentle face—Sokka sees the intent.

“I…” Zuko stutters. “I do…have an idea.” He clears his throat, feeling nervous and very seen. “I know what it’s like. To be in the dark about health stuff. It’s scary. I’m…glad I could help you a bit.”

Sokka looks a little surprised at the confession, and his eyes dance with unspoken questions. They linger on his scar, which makes Zuko feel exposed—especially when they flash with the smallest trace of pity. But then Sokka looks down, hands shoved into his pockets.

“You’re a damn good nurse, Zuko.”

They sit in silence on the bench, listening to the sounds of the city. To the cars driving by and trees rustling in the breeze. To the consistent snippets of conversation from pedestrians. To each other, subtly inching closer and closer together. When they meet in the middle, shoulder to shoulder, Zuko doesn’t comment on the heat that blooms across his skin. He wonders, instead, if Sokka feels it, too.

The moment feels both fleeting and infinite. And when Zuko’s watch signals the end of his break, he has a hard time pulling himself out of it. He wishes Sokka good luck with everything as he stands, straightening his scrubs and readying himself for work-mode once again.

He assumes he’s imagining it, but Zuko swears he can feel Sokka’s eyes on his form as he walks back inside.

\---

“Heads I quit, tails I pick up this 12-hour shift.”

“I seriously don’t understand you.”

In response to Zuko’s judgement, Aang only shrugs. It’s a rainy Saturday afternoon and they’re both in the living room, surrounded by empty bowls of broccoli cheddar soup and sandwich wrappers. On the TV, Lifetime revs up its fifth movie in a row.

“What can I say? I’m an enigma.” Aang balances a quarter on the nail side of his thumb, ready to initiate the decisive toss.

Zuko chucks at pillow at him, which he dodges with ease and an amused “hey!”

“You’re not an enigma, you’re just in denial.”

Aang purses his lips. “No, I just don’t want to be _unemployed.”_

“I already told you, I don’t care about covering your rent for a few months.”

Before Aang can respond, Zuko’s phone pings. He feels his heart spike as he stares at the message.

 **_Jet:_ ** _You free tonight?_

Since matching, the two had exchanged a few more messages, mostly working out the details to meet up (hook up) for the first time. While initially nervous, Zuko soon found himself looking forward to it. Jet’s hot, he wants him, and he’s straightforward about it. It’s nice change of pace from Zuko’s normal day to day life, where he only interacts with his patients or Aang. And if he’s really lucky—Sokka.

As if on cue, Aang sprawls himself over Zuko’s lap, bending down to pick up the coin he just flipped.

“Tails! Looks like my paycheck will be a little sweeter this week.”

Zuko shoves him off his lap, smirking when he lands on the ground with a thud.

“Fine. Just don’t come crying to me when you come home in a bad mood because you had to remove a foreign body from someone’s ass.”

“That was _one time,_ Zuko. And in the end, it was actually a very meaningful experience for everyone.”

Aang stands, throws the blanket he was using into Zuko’s face and retreats into his room to change. Fed up as Zuko is with his roommate’s antics, him going into work right now wouldn’t be the _worst_ thing in the world. He opens Tinder and types out a quick message.

 **_Zuko:_ ** _My roommate’s about to head out. You can come over to my place if you want._

A few minutes later, Aang emerges from his room dressed in a pair of navy-blue scrubs. He blows a theatrical kiss to Zuko before stepping out and shutting the door, leaving Zuko alone with his pinging phone.

 **_Jet:_ ** _Someone’s a little eager. ;) I’ll be over in 20._

Jet proves to be punctual. 30 minutes later, Zuko is pressed flat against his bedroom wall, head thrown back as Jet suckles on the pulse of his neck. The only sound in the room is their smacking lips, panting breaths and quiet grunts of pleasure.

“Knew you’d be a good time,” Jet says, pulling his shirt off in one swift motion. His jeans quickly follow and Zuko wastes no time pressing into him, pulling him out of his briefs with eager hands. Before Zuko can begin undressing himself, Jet’s hands push down on his shoulders, sending a not-so-subtle message.

Zuko chalks his easy compliance up to horniness and just a _dash_ of desperation. He’s on his knees before Jet even says the words, suckling and fondling and proving his worth. Jet is rough—rougher than Zuko was expecting, anyways. He keeps a calloused hand tangled in Zuko’s hair, yanking him right back onto his cock should he pull away for air.

At first, it’s jarring. But soon, the feeling of being needed in the most primal, instinctual way goes straight to Zuko’s groin. He has no qualms about going slack-jawed as Jet throat fucks him, selfishly chasing his own end. He swallows eagerly, pressing Jet further into his mouth with two hands on his ass.

“What a little slut,” Jet pants, head thrown back against the wall. “Holy _shit.”_

The praise is well worth the most intense blowjob Zuko has ever given. Especially when Jet pushes Zuko onto his bed, climbing on top of him and getting to work unbuckling his belt.

“You want me to fuck you, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Zuko breathes, utterly submissive and rock hard. This is exactly what he’s been craving. _‘Finally.’_

Unfortunately, Jet proves he’s not one for foreplay. He does the bare minimum; stretches Zuko with his fingers, lubes him up, and slides in just a touch too early to be pleasurable. Zuko gets used to it, however, adjusting his muscles around Jet’s cock and warming up to a sensation he hasn’t felt in years.

In the most noncommittal attempt to provide pleasure ever, Jet strokes Zuko with a lazy hand as he pounds into him. Thankfully the friction, coupled with rigorous thrusts, proves to be just enough for Zuko. He comes onto his stomach with a gasp, throwing his head back into the pillow and pretending to feel much better than he actually does. Jet soon follows suit, collapsing onto the bed next to him. He stares at the ceiling, one arm under his head, clearly satisfied.

“Wow. We should definitely do that again.”

“Yeah,” Zuko breathes. A pair of piercing blue eyes overwhelms his thoughts. He recalls the other night, when the simple brush of Sokka’s shoulder against his was far more fulfilling than whatever the hell just happened here. “We should.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading! :)


	3. three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all so much for the continued support of this story. it seriously means so much. I hope you enjoy chapter three!

Zuko balances a bowl of popcorn on his lap, paying no attention to the TV. Instead he stares at his phone, fingers twitching as he waits for Jet to message him back. He wrestles with the voice in his head calling him pathetic, desperate and worst of all…clingy.

Sure, maybe he gave in and committed the ever-pathetic ‘double text’ taboo; but it’s only because hey, maybe Jet missed his first message. The totally not desperate at all, thinly veiled booty call he sent last night. What? He had a rough week at work.

“I _knew_ case 24 would be bad. Did you not hear me say that earlier?”

Zuko barely registers Aang’s voice from the other side of the couch.

“Zuko?”

_‘Maybe if I send him another message,_ just _to make sure he knows—’_

His train of thought is interrupted when Aang rips his phone out of his hands, stuffing it into his pocket with a look of resolve. Zuko scowls, reaching forward with an open hand.

“Give me my phone back!”

“No, Zuko, this has gone on for too long.” Aang angles his body away and crosses his arms. “You message Jet, and then he comes over, and then you feel like crap for the next week until it happens again.”

“I feel _fine.”_

Aang sighs; a long, pent-up sigh that betrays the smallest hint of frustration. “You don’t have to lie to me, you know.”

Zuko knows he’s right; that he could tell Aang anything in the entire world, without an ounce of censorship, and trust that his friend won’t judge.

He knows his relationship (if one could even call it that) with Jet is bad for him. That the sloppy, once-a-week encounters aren’t doing anything but leaving a gaping hole in Zuko’s heart that sex alone can’t fill. He doesn’t blame _Jet,_ not really. After all, his Tinder profile and subsequent encounters were warning enough that he doesn’t intend to sweep Zuko off his feet and ride into the sunset. Hell, Zuko wouldn’t even _want_ that to happen; not with Jet, at least.

And—ugh, that’s another thing. Zuko knows he has a schoolgirl crush on his blue-eyed, former patient with a penchant for bad luck. He knows he walks into work each day and hopes that during his shift, Sokka meets a fortune that isn’t _fatal_ but, well…demands emergency attention. From Zuko specifically. A cut that needs stitches, a bruise that needs edema management, an insect bite. Nothing _serious._ And then Zuko reels it back in, because what kind of nurse wishes for a quasi-stranger-slash-crush to end up in the ER? Not a good one.

Zuko _knows_ all these things. He does. But it doesn’t mean he’s willing to be vulnerable. So instead, Zuko ignores Aang’s pleading eyes and turns his attention to the TV.

“I’m trying to watch this, please.”

Aang snorts. “Ooh, you’re trying to ‘ _watch’_ this. I see. Remind me, Zuko, what show are we watching again?”

He leaps in front of the screen, covering it with his body and thwarting Zuko’s view. _The little shit._

“Um…Cake Boss,” Zuko says with unwavering confidence. He quickly realizes he’s wrong—that was their binge-show of choice _last_ weekend. Duh.

“My god, you don’t even have the program right. Is Jet really good in bed, or something?”

_‘As a matter of fact, he’s terrible,’_ Zuko thinks. _‘But desperate times call for desperate measures.’_

“As a matter of fact, he’s great. And if you don’t give me my phone back, I’m going to give you all the details.”

“Say no more,” Aang scrunches his face. “Please.”

Zuko doesn’t feel satisfied when Aang returns his phone. He feels…guilty. Like he’s lying to himself. And worse still is the guilt that comes with lying to his best friend.

But still—Zuko _really_ doesn’t feel like delving into the Jet dilemma right now. So, not wanting Aang to witness the true extent of his desperation, Zuko doesn’t dare check his lock screen before sliding his phone into his pocket. Instead, he watches a mind-numbing episode of _Deal or No Deal_ with Aang and pushes Jet out of his mind. In a moment of inspired self-betterment, he even decides he won’t check his phone once for the rest of the afternoon.

Sure, fighting the urge is like wrestling with a bear, but he manages. Aang gives up on his pseudo-intervention and instead bustles around the apartment, cleaning and blaring some random Spotify playlist. Zuko knows Aang dropped their conversation just to be polite, and the seeds of concern are still thoroughly planted in his friend’s conscious. But if Aang is content to pretend like nothing’s wrong, then so is he.

Early dusk starts to settle, and Zuko finally allows himself a glance at his phone. Nothing. He isn’t surprised, and he isn’t even _that_ disappointed. But Jet’s radio silence does confirm one thing: it’s Friday night and Zuko has no plans.

Admittedly, he was banking on seeing Jet tonight. And as shameful as it is that he fully committed to nonexistent plans, Zuko isn’t opposed to spending the night alone. He’ll rev up some Netflix show for background noise, scroll mindlessly through his phone and be asleep by 1am. It sounds perfect, quite frankly.

Just as Zuko is about to retire to his room for the remainder of the night, though, Aang asks him to come out with him and Katara. Zuko’s raised brow says it all, but Aang is quick to insist that he won’t be third-wheeling this time. That Katara’s brother just moved to the area, and it might be nice to meet a new face. Zuko doesn’t think anything of it; mostly just that he doesn’t want to go.

But Aang is giving him _that_ look. The look that says it all; the _are-you-really-gonna-stay-in-your-room-alone-on-a-Friday-night_ look. Followed by the classic _and-don’t-tell-me-you’re-going-to-eat-your-feelings-in-ice-cream-the-second-I-leave_ look. They’re _very_ different, and not to be confused. So Zuko rolls his eyes and says, “fine. But I’m only staying for an hour.”

Aang offers to drive, which sounds convenient but is much more trouble than it’s worth. A free ride, Zuko realizes halfway to the bar, is not worth enduring a Cher’s essentials playlist blaring at full volume. (For someone who’s been in a committed relationship for three years, Aang belts out the chorus, “do you believe in life after love?” a little too passionately. Zuko presses his forehead into the window and fruitlessly yells at him to shut up.)

Thankfully, just as Zuko is about to tuck and roll out of the moving vehicle, Aang pulls into the parking lot and shuts off his God-forsaken playlist.

“I love Cher,” Aang sighs wistfully, more to himself than to Zuko.

“I know, buddy.”

He trails Aang into the pub, where the lighting is dim and the walls are covered in vintage beer ads. It’s a calm setting; quiet, even.

Zuko decides the best part about the pub is there’s no dance floor in sight. His chronic, deep-seated fear that Aang and Katara were going to force him to dance in a nightclub like they did New Year’s 2018 is immediately relieved. And just as he’s about to quip this thought to Aang, his phone buzzes in his pocket.

**_Jet:_ ** _Sorry didn’t see these. Wanna hang tonight?_

He feels a twinge of annoyance. This text would have been more than welcome two hours ago. But now Zuko is in an unfamiliar restaurant, and he has to meet new people, and the thought of Jet texting him as an afterthought when he’s been left on read the entire afternoon makes him bristle. So Zuko frowns, clicks his phone off and shoves it in his pocket.

“You’re gonna love Katara’s brother,” Aang says, after noticing the exchange. There’s a hopeful glint in his eyes that Zuko can’t quite categorize. “He’s a riot.”

In hindsight, Zuko shouldn’t have been surprised. Like, he really has no reason to be. How many people does he know with mocha skin and piercing blue eyes? Two. In all his years, he has met exactly two people with that striking combination of features. So when he and Aang round the corner to see Sokka nursing a beer and chatting with Katara, his first thought is that he should have considered this possibility at least once.

“Oh, you did end up coming!” Katara stands up with a smile, gesturing for them to sit down. “Zuko, this is my brother—”

“Sokka?”

Sokka’s jaw drops. “Zuko!”

Katara cocks her head. “You two know each other?”

Zuko blinks at Sokka, then his eyes dart to Katara, and then they saccade between the two as he puts everything together at a dizzying speed. They’re related, alright. _Super_ related. If Zuko were attracted to women, he wonders if he could have likened Katara’s full lips and bright eyes to the charming liability from the ER. But instead, the connection strikes him like a freight train, and he feels his stomach twist into an anxious knot.

“Um…well, we—”

Sokka, on the other hand, looks elated at the coincidence.

“Well, yeah!” He says. “He’s the nurse I told you about.”

“Zuko’s the…” Katara furrows her brows as realization dawns on her. “Oh my god, Zuko, I am _so_ sorry.”

“Who knows what now?” Aang cocks his head.

“He won’t shut up about you, you know,” Katara continues, poking Zuko’s arm. “I still think the shoulder dislocation was on purpose.”

Zuko feels his throat constrict. Everyone is looking at him with amusement—what a funny coincidence, hahaha! But really, it’s not that funny. Because Sokka’s hair is down, and the first two buttons of his shirt are undone. He’s not in pain, he’s not anxious about his Gran Gran, and he’s not Zuko’s patient. He’s in his element; a normal man, excited for the weekend, who just happens to be drop dead gorgeous.

“Oh my god,” Aang says, piecing his own puzzle together. “Zuko is _the_ nurse!”

Said gorgeous man laughs. _“The_ nurse! Zuko has saved my life…” he looks a Zuko with a lopsided grin, “what, like, five times at this point?”

It’s not ideal to find out an entire discord has been going on about him right under his nose, and he decidedly does _not_ want to know any more details about it. What do they mean, _the_ nurse? Last time Zuko checked, nothing about his medical practice was so unique that he should stand out from his peers.

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Zuko croaks, hands retreating into the pocket of his hoodie. Through his embarrassment, he chastises himself for not wearing something nicer. And then, to really bring his confidence down another peg, Sokka runs a hand through his hair and it wafts a vaguely spicy scent of cologne to Zuko’s nose. _‘Oh, great, he even smells sexy.’_

“My brother is a walking disaster,” Katara says, pulling Zuko out of Sokka’s trance.

“Nah, he’s just adventurous. Right, Sokka?” Aang smiles big, wrapping a long arm around Sokka’s shoulders.

“See, this is why you’re never breaking up with him,” Sokka says, and the three share a friendly laugh.

It’s too much at once. The Katara-Sokka relation. The Aang-Sokka friendship. The way an enigmatic ‘Sokka’s nurse’ is seemingly notorious in their little circle of three—

Zuko suppresses a cringe. The implications of _that_ are yet to be pondered. For now, Zuko has no idea what to do with himself, so he tries out a half-laugh to feel less out of place. It doesn’t work. What exactly he’s laughing at, he has no idea. As far as he’s concerned, there’s nothing humorous about this situation.

They move back to the table, and the seating arrangement doesn’t help the situation whatsoever. Katara and Aang sit across from each other, which leaves Sokka and Zuko to do the same. Zuko tries not to think about how much this feels like a double date. He tries, but the way Sokka looks at him makes it difficult. He has this look of…well, _awe_ is probably the best way to put it. Admiration. As though Zuko sitting with terrible posture and sipping a Shirley Temple is remarkable in any way.

“I used to love Shirley Temples when I was a kid,” Sokka says.

“Yeah, they’re, uh…really good.” Zuko’s voice comes out too gruff, and he clears his throat gracelessly. From the seat next to him, he feels Aang resist an urge to facepalm. And, really, he has every reason to. 

Frankly, without anything medically wrong with Sokka, Zuko has no idea what to say to the guy. He briefly wonders how his Gran Gran is doing but doesn’t feel comfortable bringing up a potentially somber topic; especially not in such a public setting. So instead, he slouches further into his seat and digs his phone out of his pocket. He responds to Jet, less out of desire and more to keep his fingers busy.

**_Zuko:_ ** _Maybe later. Your place or mine?_

Aang sees the exchange and nudges him. Hard. With the point of his bony little elbow. Zuko flinches.

_“Ow—”_

“You know, Sokka, Zuko grew up in Alaska.”

“No kidding?” Sokka is unphased by the layered exchanged between himself and Aang. He leans over the table a little. “I just moved from there.”

Ah. So _that’s_ why their paths didn’t cross earlier. Not only are they on the other side of the country, but Zuko wouldn’t return to Alaska even if his life depended on it. He’s adopted a new image of the world, and Alaska—specifically northern Alaska, where the spacious, lonely mansion he grew up in resides—does _not_ exist in it. Nope.

“Oh, yeah?” Despite a flood of unpleasant memories, Zuko tries his best to sound conversational. “Um, how’d you like it over there?”

Sokka’s face suggests that was a loaded question. Which, hey, a possible hatred of Alaska? Maybe they have more in common than Zuko thought. But then Sokka laughs good-naturedly, sipping his beer.

“Let’s just say I lasted less than a year over there.”

Zuko nods, understanding the implications and deciding to not press any further.

It’s odd, adjusting to the dynamic a relaxed Friday even thrusts upon them. There’s no problem to assess, no clinical flow of conversation that Zuko often relies on to fill the silence with his patients. Human physiology doesn’t even come up _once,_ which—fair, but it doesn’t give Zuko much to work with.

The adjustment from clinical to casual is anxiety inducing, more so than a busy night in the emergency room. Because while Zuko tries to be invisible amongst the trio, Sokka is attentive to everything he says and does. He asks Zuko for input if he’s been especially quiet, leans over the table to hear when he talks too softly, and asks the waitress to refill his Shirley Temple before Zuko even realized it was out.

It’s funny, in a way. Before, Zuko tended to Sokka’s physical injuries. But tonight, Zuko’s social skills are practically on life support and Sokka is performing proverbial CPR to make sure he doesn’t feel left out.

And that’s the thing; Zuko _doesn’t_ feel left out _._ Sokka is just unaware—unlike Aang and Katara—that he simply prefers to do more listening than talking. 

Eventually, though, Zuko’s nerves settle and the evening takes on a more comfortable feeling. Zuko can’t remember the last time he’s had this; a group of friends, out on a Friday night, having a casual drink together. And when Sokka cracks himself up over his own corny joke, Zuko realizes this is infinitely better than rotting away in his room.

Plus, when Aang, Katara and Sokka really get going, their conversations are—well, they’re something, alright. 

Apparently, Sokka’s affinity for bad luck has followed him around most of his life. There’s something charming about it, even when Sokka recounts the time he was bitten by a racoon and almost caught rabies. Or the time he chucked a boomerang and it reeled back and smacked him in the eye. As the flood of stories come in, Sokka keeps that same, shameless acceptance he had in the emergency room, like he finds his strife just as hilarious as anyone else would. For the hundredth time since meeting him, Zuko wonders how anyone can possibly be so easy-going. 

But Sokka turns a magnificent shade of red upon Aang bringing up a particularly feisty ex-girlfriend of his, whose insistence on tying him up during sex left him with a badly sprained wrist.

“God—not in front of _Zuko,”_ Sokka looks horrified, curling his heads into his hands. “Jeez, Aang.”

“Doesn’t it still pop sometimes?” Aang asks, disregarding Sokka’s humiliation.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” Katara says, two fingers firmly plugging her ears and face scrunched in distaste.

Zuko can’t help himself; his shoulder shake with quiet laughter. He tries to stifle it with his hands, but Sokka picks up on it immediately.

“Just what is so funny, Nurse Zuko?” He props an elbow up on the table, resting his head in his hand as stares at Zuko with a—a really flirtatious grin, actually. The sight of it elicits a warm blush to color his cheeks.

“Nothing,” Zuko says, mock-serious. He bites down a smile he’s certain would border on girlish should he let it bloom. 

Sokka clicks his tongue. “You’re lucky you have a cute laugh.”

Zuko ignores his phone when it buzzes in his pocket.

\---

They’re walking to their cars when Aang asks Sokka if he wants to crash at their place. Zuko all but chokes on the peppermint candy he’d grabbed on the way out, but he catches himself before a repeat of the clementine fiasco. 

“You have a king bed for me?” Sokka quips. “Kidding! Yeah, why not?”

And that’s how Zuko ends up curled into the corner of their couch, trying to keep a healthy distance between himself and Sokka as Aang plugs his phone into the TV. It’s silent as he fumbles with the cords, grumbling about this or that not connecting. Zuko can only pay attention to the rise and fall of Sokka’s chest, mere feet away from him.

“I need to grab another HDMI cord,” Aang grumbles, padding to his room. “Be right back.”

When they’re alone, Sokka glances at Zuko, and then at the forced distance between them.

“I don’t bite, you know.”

Zuko flushes. “No, I—I like sitting like this.”

Yeah, he definitely likes pressing himself against the armrest like a pill bug to mediate the heat rising up the back of his neck. Just can’t get enough of compensating for his poor interpersonal skills by being so reserved he’s nearly invisible. Really, who the hell is he trying to fool? Zuko feels like a middle schooler on a first date. He’s practically broken out in a sweat, and the electric heat radiating between them is far too intense to bear. 

The worst thing is that Sokka doesn’t seem viscerally impacted by their situation at all. Which—well, that’s just embarrassing for Zuko.

Sokka only laughs at the lame excuse, reaching down to grab his drink from the coffee table. Just as he picks up the glass, though, Zuko’s phone lights up and a myriad of messages are on full display. Zuko freezes as Sokka gives the screen a quick once-over, eyes widening and promptly looking away. The Sokka coughs, straightening back against the couch and pretending he didn’t see anything.

_Uh oh._

Zuko grabs his phone, face beet red and having a strong inkling who the messages are from. Admittedly, he had totally forgotten about his and Jet’s potential arrangements tonight. And now that he sees the aftermath of his accidental ghosting, he feels himself bristle.

**_Jet:_ ** _wtf man thought you wanted to fuck tonight_

**_Jet:_ ** _acting like you have better things to do when you’re desperate all week_

Zuko can’t decide what’s worse; the sheer hypocrisy of the messages or the fact that Sokka likely read them. Like, really? Sokka gets _one_ insight into Zuko’s personal life and it has to be _this?_ He clicks his phone off and puts it away, hoping he doesn’t look as embarrassed as he feels.

Aang bounds back into the room with an array of wires, oblivious to the awkward shift in atmosphere.

“I’m thinking we start with Buzzfeed Unsolved and then soothe our minds with Gourmet Makes before going to bed,” he says, already changed into his bison-print pajama pants. “Anyone want snacks?”

Zuko’s guilt about making Sokka feel awkward is insurmountable compared to the guilt he feels about possibly raining on Aang’s parade. Like, _he_ might be jaded, but it only makes him more aware that human beings don’t come more pure-intentioned than his best friend. So damn if Aang isn’t going to get his Buzzfeed Unsolved marathon, _and_ his snacks.

“Sounds great, buddy,” Zuko says.

If Sokka decided to dwell on the TMI-texts, he doesn’t show it. Once Aang has himself wedged between them (a factor that Zuko’s sympathetic nervous system is incredibly appreciative of), he goes back to his baseline personality of a carefree, painfully attractive jokester.

And why _would_ Sokka dwell on the texts, anyways? As if he cares about Zuko’s private communications. _‘Jeez, Zuko, stop making everything about yourself.’_

Thankfully, the rest of the night is uneventful. Aang and Sokka are chipper, bantering about the show while Zuko obsesses over everything he’s done wrong today. So basically, nothing out of the ordinary. He calls it a night at around eleven o’clock, partially because he has work tomorrow and partially because he’s nervous Aang will leave him alone with Sokka again.

He wishes them both a goodnight and pads to his room, about ready to combust. Embarrassment, pining, humiliation…Zuko is _really_ thankful he didn’t drink tonight, because the cocktail of emotions is more than enough to leave the room spinning. 

The next morning, he wakes up to Billy Joel blaring from the kitchen. Zuko rubs the sleep from his eyes, groaning a little as he contemplates yelling at Aang to turn it down. But then he remembers—it’s not just him and Aang this morning.

Zuko showers and throws his scrubs on before leaving his room. If Sokka is still here, the last thing he wants to do is trudge out looking like he just woke up.

He thanks himself for putting in the extra effort, because when he leaves his room, he’s greeted by Sokka emptying the dishwasher and humming along to the music. He’s wearing sweatpants and a fitted t-shirt, and _goddamn._ This man is wreaking havoc on Zuko’s composure.

“Shit, Zuko, did I wake you up?”

“Oh—no, it’s fine,” Zuko says. Because, wow, it honestly is fine. Even if Zuko _didn’t_ have work. “It’s late, I had to wake up anyways.”

Sokka gives him an obvious once-over. “I, uh, made waffle batter, if you want me to make you some.”

“That’s okay. I’m not a big breakfast person.”

An awkward silence falls between them. Where the hell is Aang, anyways? Probably picked up another shift that he’s going to hate every second of. And why is Sokka just cleaning the kitchen like he lives here? Offering to make _waffles?_ Zuko feels like agreeing to go out with Aang last night transported him into another dimension entirely, because the events of the last 12 hours are too much to process.

“Can I at least make you some tea?”

Zuko shrugs. “Sure.”

It’s mostly silent as Sokka bustles around, tidying up the living room from last night and boiling some water. He looks exhausted but assures Zuko that the couch was _extremely_ comfortable (it’s not. Zuko knows it’s not, thanks to the many nights he’s accidentally fallen asleep on it). It’s casual, surface-level conversation. Zuko finishes his tea, chatting with Sokka about his plans for the day, when he finally gets his lunch together and readies himself to leave.

Sokka calls out to him as he slings his bag over his shoulder.

“Hey, Zuko—” Sokka looks down, then up into his eyes. “Any chance I could, maybe, get your number?”

Zuko’s breath hitches. “My number?”

Sokka leans against the refrigerator, keeping his cool. “Yeah. I mean, only if you’re alright with me sending you memes. Plus, fate keeps bringing us together, right?”

Zuko laughs a bit, letting his shoulders relax. He punches his number into Sokka’s phone, praying the tremble in his fingers isn’t visible. Sokka smiles when he hands the phone back, tucking it into his pocket with an air of satisfaction. What he’s so satisfied about, Zuko hasn’t the slightest idea. But Zuko regards him with a shy grin and half-wave as he turns away, feeling lighter on his feet after the exchange.

“One other thing,” Sokka says as Zuko is almost out the door. He takes a step forward, head lolled to the side so his hair covers half his face. He looks playful but sincere.

“I promise I’ll only ever text you nice things.”

Zuko pales. He wasn’t expecting _that_ to be addressed. “Oh, uh—”

“You don’t need to explain anything,” Sokka says. “It isn’t my business. But, well, I just wanna say you don’t deserve…that. Him.”

Zuko clears his throat. He isn’t sure what to say, but the compassionate look on Sokka’s face melts any previous sense of embarrassment away.

“Anyways. Have a good day at work, Zuko. I’ll see you around, okay?”

“Yeah—see you.”

Zuko turns away, shutting the door and pressing his back against it. He exhales, long and drawn out, before starting down the hall and trying to calm his buzzing mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY OCTOBER!!!! <33333 remember when I said I was a medical professional? ya that shit's stressful sometimes. my goodness. my life is so chaotic right now and this chapter is NOT to my ideal standards but I just needed to get it out cause I love this story and wanna keep it going
> 
> another reason this chapter is late: I was FEROCIOUSLY gripped to write a tragic zukka astronaut au. I've literally never experienced a stronger urge to write something and it took up like a good two weeks of what would have otherwise been spent working on this story lol. 
> 
> anyways. zuko in this fic is an embodiment of the song intro to anxiety by hoodie allen lmao. he'll come around I promise


	4. four

Zuko waits until Jet falls asleep to slip out of his apartment, not bothering to tidy up the pillows and blankets strewn about. His head is swimming, plagued with self-deprecation and an overall disbelief at how _easily_ he agreed to Jet’s half-assed text two hours ago. In the end, a simple _‘wyd’_ was all it took for Zuko to disregard the rude texts from the other week. Pathetic. Jet failed to acknowledge them, too, which—well, maybe that’s for the best, actually. It’s not like they’re dating, or anything.

Zuko _did_ have to pry a sleeping-Jet’s arm from around his waist just now, though, so that wasn’t ideal.

Present Zuko continues to berate past Zuko’s choices as he slips out of the building, shrugging his jacket on and pulling the hoodie over his head. An overwhelming desire for a long, hot shower overtakes him. Something to scrub away the film of bad decisions that makes focusing on anything else feel impossible. He’s tempted, in that moment, to block Jet’s number entirely. 

At this point, his escapades with Jet feel like a waste of time. A total dead end. What started off as merely experimental and just a touch _exciting_ has now begun to feel like…a chore. And for what, really? Jet isn’t even _that_ hot, and he’s selfish in bed. Zuko figures he deserves someone who would at _least_ kiss him a little while they—He shakes his head. Where did these thoughts even come from? He _deserves_ someone? Since when? But when Zuko hops into his car and feels his phone buzz, he’s reminded once again where his sudden standards have come from.

 **_Sokka:_ ** _u and me. pumpkin picking. this weekend._

Zuko feels his heart flutter. Since exchanging phone numbers, their relationship has gone from familiar strangers to…friends? Yeah, Zuko can comfortably call Sokka his friend, at this point. They keep each other updated about their day-to-day life, occasionally go out for drinks with Katara and Aang, and…well, pretty much talk all the time.

Sokka always makes a point to ask Zuko about his day. He keeps the conversation engaging. He sends Zuko dumb memes meant for middle-aged moms on Facebook. In fact, attached to the pumpkin picking offer is a picture of a minion holding a wine bottle, with the caption, _‘I decided to reward myself with a well-earned glass of wine after a long week. Then I remembered it’s only Tuesday morning…’_

Zuko rolls his eyes and chuckles. Ironically sent or not, Sokka has a seemingly endless supply of vaguely concerning minion memes, and he never fails to bombard Zuko with them. It’s endearing—it’s _Sokka._ He’s goofy, he’s kind, he’s caring… _fuck._

It isn’t helping the crush situation. Not one bit. Zuko is pretty certain he and Sokka are firmly in ‘friends’territory, considering Sokka recently moved to the area and probably just wants to make new connections. He’s flirty, sure, but most of the time Zuko brushes that stuff off, because Sokka is just one of _those_ guys. Charming and attractive, but not egotistical enough to understand the full extent of it. Not egotistical enough to know just how much his suave affects Zuko.

 **_Zuko:_ ** _That’d be fun. I might be working, though._

**_Sokka:_ ** _looks like ur gonna be calling outta work, then ;)_

 **_Zuko:_ ** _My patients need me._

 **_Sokka:_ ** _as one of ur former patients_

 **_Sokka:_ ** _i need u with me this weekend_

 **_Sokka:_ ** _to make sure a pumpkin doesn’t fall on my head_

 **_Sokka:_ ** _and send me to the ER_

 **_Zuko:_ ** _You’re right. I’ll see what I can do._

 **_Sokka:_ ** _uh huh. dats what i thought_

Zuko smirks at his phone. Sokka _does_ have a point; if a pumpkin ever does fall out of the sky, he would probably be the poor fellow it concusses. He tosses his phone into the passenger’s seat and heads home, contemplating whether or not he was serious about calling out—he’s pretty certain he _does_ have a 12-hour night shift lined up this weekend.

But…pumpkin picking with Sokka. There’s an alternative.

When he enters the apartment, he finds Aang in the kitchen, wearing an apron and furiously whisking what looks to be the beginnings of egg custard. Zuko is half-expecting a mini lecture about Jet, but Aang appears to be in an unbreakable trance. He doesn’t react when the door shuts, mouth fixed in a stern line and eyes glazed over as he stares into the bowl. Zuko plops his keys down on the counter, ducking a little so he sneaks into Aang’s field of vision.

Aang still doesn’t acknowledge him, so Zuko tentatively waves a hand right in front of his eyes.

“Uh…hey.”

Aang doesn’t look up. “Want some egg custard? I’m making egg custard.”

“You, uh…you okay, buddy?”

“I’m good, I’m super good,” Aang says, wiping his brow. “Just,” he begins to whisk even faster, somehow, “really trying to finish this egg custard.”

“Right,” Zuko says, because—yeah, that much is clear. Aang looks like a contestant from the damn British Bake Off. And he would know, because they spent the entirety of their Sunday afternoon binging it. “How about you put the bowl down and tell me what happened?”

“Good idea. I need to get going on the tart, anyways—” Aang turns away and starts rummaging through the drawers. He’s careless, throwing ingredients this way and that and sighing in frustration. When a jar of lemon pepper spice connects with Zuko’s forehead, he scowls.

“Hey,” he says, grabbing Aang’s arm. “You’re acting like a lunatic.”

“I’m fine.” Aang frowns at Zuko, looking vaguely put out and very tired. “I’ve just been craving egg custard. _AlsoIquitmyjob._ Hey, any chance you would want to go out this weekend—”

Zuko’s eyebrows retreat into his hairline. “You what?”

“Do you want cinnamon or fruit on your tart?”

“Aang.”

“I’ll just make both, I’m sure we’ll eat them all—”

 _“Aang.”_ Zuko grabs his friend’s shoulders and gives him a firm shake. Aang straightens, tearing his eyes away from Zuko’s stern gaze. He looks like a little boy being scolded, so Zuko softens his voice. “You quit your job.”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“…No.” Aang’s voice becomes impossibly small. 

Zuko sighs. “Okay.”

“I—” Aang curls into himself. “I’m sorry, Zuko. I just want to forget about it right now. We can talk later, okay?”

Zuko nods. He gives Aang a reassuring pat on the shoulder and steps away, lightening the situation by requesting extra cinnamon on his tart. He can tell Aang appreciates it, even if he still has a heavy, shameful expression on his face. (An expression that is definitely not warranted for quitting a job that made him miserable, but Zuko bites his tongue).

Leaving Aang to his devices, he slips into his room and takes a shower, long and scorching hot, before shrugging on some lounge clothes. He’s 30 minutes into a random documentary about serial killers when his phone buzzes. It’s a message from Sokka—no, a _picture_ from Sokka. And Zuko’s eyes widen as he takes it in.

He’s shirtless, but nothing about the picture seems posed or try-hard. Instead Sokka is frowning, angling the phone so it picks up swollen, angry looking bumps on his collarbone. They trail from his clavicle to his shoulder, and they don’t look like pimples.

 **_Sokka:_ ** _are these normal? im scared nurse zuko :(_

Zuko takes a shaky breath. Does Sokka know what he’s _doing,_ sending something like this? Jesus. He’s overtaken by a strong urge to examine the marks in person, to run his fingers over Sokka’s defined collarbone and feel smooth mocha skin beneath his fingertips. How the hell did he get so _built_ , anyways? He’s athletic and masculine, with broad shoulders and the damn nipple piercings that make Zuko’s head spin. He makes a note to start going to the gym again—

Zuko snaps out of it and shakes his head, hard enough for droplets of water from his still-damp hair to splatter his laptop. With all the willpower in the world, he pulls his head out of the gutter.

They look like spider bites, but Zuko decides he’ll have a little fun with this. That’s what friends do, after all.

**_Zuko:_ ** _Wow. I don’t know how to tell you this, Sokka._

 **_Zuko:_ ** _You’re probably going to die within the next few minutes._

 **_Sokka:_ ** _ha ha ha, very funny_

 **_Sokka:_ ** _not :l_

 **_Sokka:_ ** _for the hundredth time: ur lucky ur cute_

Zuko tries very hard not to dwell on the last message. He’s gotten good at filtering out the empty remarks. At processing them exactly how they’re intended: platonically.

 **_Zuko:_ ** _I’m serious. I’m really concerned about this._

 **_Sokka:_ ** _ugh. im texting aang_

 **_Sokka:_ ** _onto the next nurse contact_

 **_Sokka:_ ** _maybe HE’LL be helpful_

 **_Zuko:_ ** _So, you’re just using me…for free healthcare?_

 **_Zuko:_ ** _:(_

 **_Sokka:_ ** _aww lmao_

 **_Sokka:_ ** _i know ur kidding_

 **_Sokka:_ ** _but that’s adorable_

 **_Sokka:_ ** _id never use u zuko :)_

There’s sincerity there, more than Zuko is comfortable with. He feels impossibly warm, heart thudding as reads the last text over and over. This time, he can’t help himself—he imprints the sentiment into his brain, putting it in a thousand different contexts outside of friendly banter. After a moment, he realizes he’s smiling at his phone like a dumbass, so he tries to pull it together.

 **_Zuko:_ ** _Uh huh. You just want a diagnosis._

 **_Zuko:_ ** _Looks like spider bites to me._

 **_Zuko:_ ** _I wouldn’t worry about it._

Yeah, he’s using humor to mask any sort of emotional response to Sokka’s statement. What of it? The triple text _does_ feel a little frantic, but Sokka’s in no place to judge, what with an average ratio of five texts to one coherent thought. Thankfully, though, Sokka doesn’t miss a beat.

 **_Sokka:_ ** _ew wtf_

 **_Sokka:_ ** _can i pop em_

_**Zuko:** Not a good idea._

**_Sokka:_ ** _but they itch nurse zuko_

 **_Sokka:_ ** _please help your old weathered friend_

 **_Sokka:_ ** _im getting tired and frail_

 **_Zuko:_ ** _You didn’t complain when you dislocated your shoulder_

 **_Zuko:_ ** _And now you’re acting like you’re dying_

 **_Zuko:_ ** _Over literally three spider bites._

 **_Sokka:_ ** _umm_

 **_Sokka:_ ** _i was trying to impress u tbh_

 **_Sokka:_ ** _wish i was kidding_

 **_Sokka:_ ** _did it work? :)_

Zuko bites down a smile. He’s weak—he’s _so very weak_ for this man. And worst of all, he welcomes it with arms wide open.

 **_Zuko:_ ** _…Maybe._

 **_Sokka:_ ** _that’s what i thought baby_

Sokka sends another meme, one Zuko reckons he plucked directly from the seventh lair of Hell itself. It’s a minion dressed as a sexy maid, fishnet stockings and all, throwing up a peace sign with the caption, _‘I have a disease called Awesome. You won’t understand it because you don’t have it.’_

Zuko calls out his upcoming shift as soon as he can, fully aware of how utterly doomed he is and unwilling to do anything about it.

\---

Sokka picks him up Saturday morning, on a crisp autumn day that makes summer feel far away. He looks good. Really good. Under his quarter zip is a thick blue flannel, and when Zuko slips into the passenger’s seat he pulls the elastic out of his hair and lets his brown locks cascade around his cheekbones. _Goddammit._

“You kept me waiting,” he chides.

Zuko rolls his eyes and laughs. “Sorry. Aang was being annoying.”

It’s a not a total lie. Upon hearing about his outing with Sokka today, Aang immediately donned a devilish smirk and muttered something about Katara owing him money. Zuko proceeded to pester him about _‘what the hell does that mean’,_ Aang continued to dodge him, and things…escalated. They escalated so much that right up until 5 minutes ago, the two were full-out shouting at each other from across the living room.

 _“I am_ not _going on a date,” Zuko says, hand outstretched to grab Aang’s phone as he starts furiously typing a message to Katara. Giggling like a maniac, Aang ducks and sprints to the other side of the room, away from Zuko’s prying grasp._

_“Sokka is literally in love with you!” Aang says, standing on the couch and using a throw pillow as a shield. “You’re going on a DATE. A D-A-T-E.”_

_“Shut up, he is not in love with me!” Zuko raises his voice a solid three pitches and has to stop himself from stomping his foot like a child. Proverbial steam shoots from his ears as he glares down Aang, who’s smiling like a dumbass and looking entirely too happy for Zuko despite their current state of affairs._

_“You do realize Sokka has like, a million other guys or girls he could hang out with, right?” Aang looks uncharacteristically smug, amused that he has to piece this puzzle together for Zuko. “There’s a glaring reason he’s single—”_

_“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”_

_“—and that reason is an angry little trauma nurse who’s too dense to see what’s right in front of him.”_

_A beat of silence. The neurons in Zuko’s brain fire out of control, screaming at him to deescalate this situation. To deny it. Because there’s just_ no way _Sokka could ever look at him like that._

 _"_ _No. You’re wrong, Aang. Sokka just—” Zuko feels himself blush. Sokka just wants to make new connections, he tries to say. Because he’s new to the area. That’s all. But the words don’t come out, and he sputters like an idiot while Aang sighs and plops himself down onto the couch._

_“Oh, Zuko. God, you’re so stupid, I—” he sighs and shakes his head. He looks almost serene, like a wise old man who Knows All. Zuko could smack him. “I don’t even care. Fine. Have fun with your bro-hangout. Go hit on some hot chicks and get laid.”_

_“I hate you so much.”_

“See, that’s why I don’t have roommates.” Sokka’s voice brings Zuko back to reality, and he realizes they’ve pulled out of the parking lot and are cruising down a scenic back road, littered with fallen foliage and serving as a picturesque image of autumn’s peak. Sokka has one hand on the wheel and the other resting on the center console, just inches away from Zuko’s thigh.

Zuko swallows and redirects his gaze to the road, giving Sokka a chuckle in acknowledgement. He’s thinking of something else to say, anything to get his mind off of Aang’s shenanigans, when his eyes land on a sea lion bobblehead secured on Sokka’s dashboard. He reaches forward and gives the head a gentle tap.

“That’s Stella,” Sokka says. “Pretty much the only remnant I have of my time in Alaska.”

“Stella?”

Sokka grins. “It’s a Steller sea lion, and I’m a left-brained engineer with no creativity whatsoever.”

“Ah,” Zuko says with a smile. The bobblehead is cute, covered in fuzzy brown fabric and fashioning long whiskers and big, doe eyes. “Did you ever see one in person?”

“A few times, yeah. Me and my coworkers actually studied their flippers as models to develop a bunch of different underwater robotics. Suuuuuper nerdy, to be honest.”

“No, that’s amazing,” Zuko says, enchanted. “Wow.”

Sokka doesn’t appear to share any pride looking back on his previous job. “It was fine, I guess. I don’t know. I’m honestly glad to be out of there.”

Zuko senses something in Sokka’s words, a desire to open up, or at the least, relate. And it’s his sudden, innate certainty that Sokka will agree with him that pushes him to say, “Alaska is the worst, anyways.”

“The _worst,_ right?” Sokka deflates, seemingly alleviated that Zuko dared to say it first. “Glad you can understand.”

He does understand, and he’s plagued with memories to boot. Zuko becomes acutely aware of the scar on his face. The scar that Sokka can see clear as day if he so much as glances to the passenger’s side. He frowns. “You have no idea.”

“Well, I want to. So, what’s _your_ beef with The Last Frontier? Because we have all day, baby.”

Zuko laughs, trying to downplay the heat rising in his cheeks. There’s no way he can go into all of _that_ —not when they’re on their way to go pick pumpkins and drink apple cider without a care in the world. Zuko wants to just ignore it, wants to pretend he’s not as fucked up as he really is. But here he is, sitting next to a kind-hearted man who, for all intents and purposes, seems like he actually gives a shit. So Zuko measures out what he should and shouldn’t share in this delicate conversation, finally deciding that less might be more, for now.

“My family is…really messed up.”

“Damn.” Sokka sighs, glances over at him with sincere eyes. “Do you still have to deal with them?”

“I, uh, I try not to. For the most part.” Zuko picks at his nails. He feels woozy, all of the sudden. “I thought leaving Alaska would fix everything. It didn’t, really.”

“I know what you mean.” Sokka turns the radio off, fully invested in Zuko’s words but sparing him from further discomfort by turning the conversation to himself. “I hated who I was over there. So fucking much.”

Zuko is grateful for the redirection, turning his body towards Sokka subconsciously. “Why?”

“My life was just,” Sokka shakes his head. “Shitty. I had a lot of things going on and didn’t make the best decisions. And I had no one to ground me over there, you know? Was like a spiral.”

“Yeah,” Zuko says, almost speechless. He finds he doesn’t even need to know the specifics to relate to what Sokka is saying. “A…spiral.”

“And it doesn’t help that half the year is spent in, like, fucking _complete_ darkness, you know?” Sokka jokes, a suave but curated transition away from the heaviness they both just hinted at. He glances at Zuko and looks right into his eyes, with no searching or hesitation. “I’m glad I’m here now, though.”

Zuko dares to look back with equal depth. For so much still left unsaid, he sees the man next to him in a new, more familiar light. “Me, too.”

\---

The early evening brings a chill. There’s a bite in the air that makes Zuko wish he wore a scarf, and he invites Sokka over for some hot chocolate and a movie. He doesn’t think anything of the way Sokka’s cheeks pinken at the offer—Zuko’s face feels flushed from the cold, too. And Sokka wouldn’t stop talking about this dumb _Lifetime_ movie Zuko just _had_ to see, so the invitation felt like a natural extension to their day. Definitely nothing more.

As they approach the apartment door, though, Zuko hears music blaring from inside, along with the unmistakable sound of people laughing. He immediately suppresses a groan.

“I think Aang is throwing an impromptu Halloween party.”

Sokka raises a brow. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It is.” Zuko leans his back against the door and sighs. “It is a bad thing.”

“You mean you don’t feel like playing drinking games and forcing yourself to socialize?” Sokka pokes Zuko in the rib and Zuko giggles despite himself, curling his body away with no real fight.

There’s a playfulness to Sokka’s tone that Zuko doesn’t know how to decipher. His mind begins to race; does Sokka feel like going to this party? Is Zuko being a buzzkill? Is Sokka sick of hanging out with him?

Zuko looks down, picking at his cuticles with poorly masked anxiousness. He doesn’t know how to tell Sokka that he’d very much been looking forward to their movie night, and very much does not want to deal with a crowded living room right now. He feels the invisible tendrils of his anxiety switch the atmosphere from relaxed to tense, and he’s certain Sokka picks up on it.

As if on cue, Sokka steps forward and pries Zuko’s picking hand away. Zuko assumes he imagines the quick, comforting circle the pad of Sokka’s thumb rubs into his hand.

“Hey, stop that,” he says. “Want to go to my place instead? I have hot chocolate mix _and_ no friends to take up space.” A friendly, self-deprecating laugh lightens the mood, and Zuko releases a breathy laugh.

“Yeah, that sounds good.”

He looks up then, and golden eyes meet blue. Zuko’s breath catches and he takes in Sokka’s face, now closer than ever, with full lips and smooth skin. He feels his hand still encased in Sokka’s larger one, feels a blush creep up the back of his neck, feels his mouth go dry.

“There,” Sokka says. “Nothing to be worried about, okay?”

The inches between them are electric, pulsing with a magnetic energy Zuko is certain he can’t be imagining.

“Okay,” he says, almost a whisper.

Sokka leans forward, blue eyes lidded and fixed on Zuko’s lips, and suddenly Zuko’s heart is in his throat. He presses his back into the door and grasps Sokka’s hand a little tighter. Sokka’s other hand comes forward to rest on his waist, tentatively high, and it sends an electric jolt down Zuko’s spine. He’s about to tilt his head but suddenly stumbles back, hard, and before he can process what happened he’s lying flat on his back and staring up at a confused-looking Katara.

“Uh, nope, that wasn’t Toph,” she says. “Sorry, Zuko!”

“Zuko, oh god, are you okay?” Suddenly a concerned-looking Aang clouds Zuko’s vision, peering down at him in horror. “I thought you were Toph, and just confused about which apartment was ours, and oh god did you smack your head—”

Zuko grimaces, rolling to his side and bringing a hand to his head. He _did_ smack it. Hard. An egg is already beginning to swell at the back of his skull, and he makes a mental note to ice it, like, right now.

“No, I’m great. I’m just great,” Zuko says instead, because people are starting to stare. “Fuck.”

“Katara, really? You just had to _swing_ the door open like that?” Sokka cuts in, and Zuko can hear the annoyance in his voice. He kneels down and examines Zuko with a frown. “Goddammit, I’m the one who’s supposed to randomly get hurt.”

Zuko gives a lazy chuckle at that, eyes fixed on the dim ceiling lights.

Katara huffs at her brother. “Excuse me? Why was he _leaning_ against the door in the first place? Like, fully _leaning?”_

“We were—” Sokka sputters, gesturing wildly with pursed lips. “Talking!”

“Katara.” Aang frowns, regarding Zuko with an apologetic expression. “Come on. Look at him, he looks awful.”

“No, it’s—” Zuko flinches as props himself up on his elbows, blinking away the dizziness. “It’s fine. I’m fine. Really.”

“No, like, you seriously look awful,” Aang says, handing him a bag of frozen peas before Zuko can even ask when he got up to retrieve it. “Do you think you have a concussion?”

Zuko shoots him a biting look.

“I think I might, actually,” he says, eyes locked on Aang’s. He tries to sound convincing. “Can we go grab that _flashlight_ in your room? To see if I’m _bleeding?”_

Aang gives a slow nod. “Right, yeah. Good idea. Okay, we’ll be right back, guys. Nurse stuff.”

Zuko is shaky as he finds his footing, and Aang and Katara give each other a brief look when Sokka’s arm wraps around his waist to stabilize him. Frankly, Zuko’s head is pounding too hard to acknowledge or react to the gesture, and he trudges away before anyone can comment on it.

The second they’re alone in Aang’s room Zuko shuts the door and crosses his arms.

“Really? I know you’re in a quarter life crisis because of your job, but _really?”_

“I know, I know, I should have told you,” Aang sulks. “I swear, it was a super last-minute thing.”

“No shit!” Zuko raises his voice a notch, wincing when his head throbs. He sits on Aang’s bed and rubs his temples, giving a heavy sigh. He waits a few beats to calm himself and redirect his thoughts. “I’m sorry. The party…I’m not mad about the party.”

“What _are_ you mad about?”

Zuko takes a deep breath and groans miserably. “I’m mad that you were _right,_ dumbass.”

A beat goes by, painful for Zuko and unquestionably satisfying for his best friend. 

“About…?” Aang asks to draw out the torture despite knowing full well what the answer will be.

“About Sokka, you asshole!”

“…I was right, wasn’t I?” Aang’s face splits into a huge grin. “I was like, _righter_ than right.”

“I’m so fucked.” Zuko covers his eyes to block his reality out. “So, so fucked.”

The room is silent for a moment, Aang silently celebrating and Zuko loudly brooding. Finally, Aang nudges him.

“Do you actually want me to check if you’re bleeding?”

Zuko chucks a pillow at Aang, who guffaws and dodges it easily.

The door creaks open then, and a concerned-looking Sokka steps inside. He paces across the room and sits next to Zuko, brows furrowed together and looking somehow responsible for everything.

“Are you alright, Zuko?”

Aang speaks up, presumably to prevent Zuko from giving a flustered, train wreck of a response. “He’s just fine. A little bit of ice on that baby and he’ll be good as new.”

“Should…do you think I need to take him to the hospital?” Sokka asks.

“No, no, I’m good. It’s just a bruise,” Zuko says, despising every second Sokka spends worrying about him. It’s embarrassing, it’s humiliating, it’s—it’s reminding Zuko exactly why he’s falling so hard in the first place.

“I give him the go ahead to resume normal activity with no limitations,” Aang says in a clinical voice, theatrically straightening his back and lifting an index finger. “With ice and NSAIDs as needed.”

“Thank you, oh wonderful nurse Aang,” Sokka says dryly. “Whose fault this is in the first place.”

“Not Aang’s fault,” Zuko says in a small voice, one hand still resting on his head. “I’m fine. Really.”

“You’re lucky Zuko is a sweetheart, idiot,” Sokka says, one hand reaching out to tousle Aang’s short hair. “I’ll give _you_ a bump on the head next time.”

“Come on, you know you love me. Am I not the cutest nurse you know?” Aang elbows Sokka’s side, continuing to push his buttons in the most Aang-fashion Zuko has ever seen.

“Not even close.” Sokka looks at Zuko with bursting fondness, then, and he just about melts.

\---

The ride to Sokka’s apartment is silent. It’s a comfortable silence, but the throes of anticipation bubble in Zuko’s gut. He had actually packed an overnight bag before they left, not content to go to sleep with a pounding headache while 20 people play flip cup in his living room. He knows, without question, that he will be _spending the night_ with Sokka. Alone. After they almost kissed less than an hour ago.

Sokka’s apartment is clean, with neutral colors and big windows. It is, admittedly, a lot nicer than Zuko and Aang’s pad, and Zuko’s thoughts briefly drift to the size of Sokka’s wallet.

There are a few Sokka-esque touches that mediate the otherwise refined apartment, though; sticky notes all over the kitchen counter reminding him to do things, pictures with family and friends scattered all over the walls, a bunch of emoji kitchen magnets he claimed Katara bought him as a ‘joke’…it feels _homey._ Zuko likes it.

“Do you want some water or anything?” Sokka helps him sit down and rummages around for a glass before Zuko can even answer.

“I’m fine, Sokka,” he says, chuckling as an ice-cold glass is pressed into his palm. Sokka even went through the trouble to give him a straw. “Thank you, though.”

“Yeah, no, I just—” it’s odd, seeing Sokka so flustered, pacing around and seemingly out of his depth. “I want you to be comfortable.”

Zuko is certain there’s a double meaning there. “I am,” he says. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

“Okay, good, good,” Sokka says, still discomposed as he finds his way to the couch to sit down next to Zuko. “So, for sleep, I’ll stay on the couch and you can take my bed. It’s comfy!”

Zuko doesn’t like that plan at all, but who is he to suggest they share a bed before they’ve even properly kissed? That could come off terribly. Admittedly, he’s a little surprised that Sokka is _this_ much of a gentleman, but manages to brush aside his initial disappointment. Instead he goes through the motions, says he’ll take the couch and Sokka should totally sleep in his own bed, but the efforts are about as fruitless as Zuko knew they would be.

They fall into easy conversation, then, saying whatever comes to mind. Joking about the egg on Zuko’s head. Bantering about Sokka’s bad luck rubbing off on Zuko because of how much time they spend together. Planning what they should do next weekend.

Perched on Sokka’s couch, wrapped into a soft beige blanket, Zuko feels warm and fuzzy. Every conversation with Sokka, every shared glance, every poorly executed joke has started to feel natural. _Easy._ They’re compatible in a way Zuko never would have expected, in a way he never would have _dreamed_ of when he first met Sokka, the charming and handsome idiot whose second home is the emergency room.

Sokka’s days as his patient feel far away now, but a small part of Zuko stills wonders if this is _wrong,_ somehow. He wonders this as Sokka lifts a tentative hand to Zuko’s cheek, caressing his face as though it were made of glass. He wonders if it’s wrong as the pad of Sokka’s thumb brushes his cheekbone, right where skin meets scar. But Zuko doesn’t pull away, he doesn’t flinch. He leans into Sokka’s touch, allowing the border of his mark to be traversed by tender fingertips. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Sokka says under his breath.

“It isn’t,” Zuko says, shy. Hinting at something unspoken but clearly seen.

“It’s just you.” Sokka’s hand glides from his cheek to the back of his neck, secure and strong. Zuko’s hands place themselves on his shoulders, broad and strong, and Sokka sucks in a breath. If he’s waiting for a go-ahead, Zuko hopes the bedroom eyes he’s most definitely giving him right now are enough.

Because suddenly, Zuko isn’t worried about what’s wrong.

Sokka’s lips are warm and rough against his, and they stay closed and cautious at first. His other hand finds Zuko’s hip as he kisses him, thumb pressing into the protruding bone, and Zuko takes the opportunity to traverse his hands over the expanse of Sokka’s firm chest.

Before long the kiss is less refined, with Sokka’s tongue swiping every corner of Zuko’s mouth and Zuko sucking his bottom lip in a manner far too lewd for a first kiss. The intimacy is electric, long desired by both and quick to escalate. Sokka’s hands slide up and down Zuko’s sides, wanting but purposefully reserved. Sokka eventually lowers his head to Zuko’s jaw, trailing bold and open-mouthed kisses from his neck to his clavicle. It’s good—it’s _unbelievably_ good, and Zuko tangles his hand in Sokka’s hair, closing his eyes as he suckles on the slope of his shoulder.

Too quickly, Sokka’s mouth leaves his neck with a small _pop,_ and for a moment he stares at Zuko with a fond gaze—surely taking in the utter mess he’d just made of him. Zuko’s lips are swollen, his neck glistens with kisses and his hair is sprawled out onto the pillow below him.

Sokka looks like a man utterly tortured.

“I want to do this right,” he finally says, much to Zuko’s surprise. Were this Jet, he’d be asking for a blowjob right about now. But Sokka—Sokka _kisses_ Zuko’s forehead and slowly rights himself, helping Zuko sit up with him.

Zuko blinks in response. Sokka sighs.

“You probably have a concussion, and I…I don’t want to go too fast and fuck this up.”

Zuko nods, taken aback but not offended. “Okay—yeah, I get it.”

He doesn’t sound convincing enough, because Sokka quickly grabs his hand.

“Please, Zuko. This isn’t you. It’s me. You have no idea what you do to me, Zuko. _God,_ stopping that was literally the hardest thing I’ve ever fucking done. You have no idea.”

“Oh?” Zuko smiles at that and bites his lip playfully, giving Sokka the relief he deserves. “I’m not upset, by the way.”

“Really?”

“Really. I get it. I…I don’t want to mess up, either.”

The worry leaves Sokka’s face, replaced by an elated smile as he squeezes Zuko’s hand. The kissing, the conversation, the aftermath feels _intimate_ —far more intimate than any fuck session he’s had with Jet. But in this moment, Zuko isn’t afraid.

In this moment, he finally accepts that he is utterly doomed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writers block DO be hitting me. fuq. 
> 
> can u tell I started writing this way before halloween hahah I am such a clown thinking this chappie would be a 'halloween special' I hate myself and also I should have edited this more
> 
> I'm thinking at most 2-3 more chapters for this cute lil nurse au. we'll see though :) thank you all so much for the continued support. you make posting so much fun xx


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